The Guy in the Middle (The Underdogs Book 3) Read online

  “She’s proud is all.”

  “Yeah, that she is. She danced a little when she was young.”

  “That’s where you get it from?”

  “Most definitely.”

  He chuckles at a few adolescent photos, and I move to block his view. “Enough with this, we don’t want to keep her waiting.”

  “Did you get lost?” Nana calls as I take the hallway that leads to the kitchen with Lance trailing behind.

  “Nope,” I say as she comes into view, her back to the two of us as she stirs the same metal pot she’s used for years. In her home is where I feel the safest. The smells, the fact that very little décor has changed over the years. It’s my place of peace, where I block out the outside world and exist in hers. I wrap my arms around her where she stands, inhaling her scented lotion. “Smells so good. Hanukkah Sameach, Nana.”

  “You too, Dove.” She sets the spoon down and pulls me to her. “I’ve missed you.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ve been busy with the new show.”

  “Ah well, that’s a good excuse. Speaking of, your mother called this morning. They won’t be coming for New Year’s either. Says she has to work.”

  I glance over at Lance, who follows our conversation carefully. “Maybe next year.”

  “Maybe.” We both sound skeptical because when it comes to my parents, we aren’t sure they’ll ever be in the same room again, let alone celebrating the holidays. Lance hasn’t said a word about Dad so far, and I’ve been thankful. When I release her from my grip, she turns and drinks him in. “And who do we have here?”

  “Lance,” he offers, extending his hand across the space before all five foot one of my nana pulls him in for a hug. She’s in her early seventies but doesn’t look a day over fifty. She takes immaculate care of herself. Today, she’s dressed to the nines in cashmere and slacks, her hair artfully braided to frame her face. “Ah, Lance, well aren’t you a surprise.” She makes no show of ignorance to who he is. She’s very aware of him and our story. I’ve confided in her more than I have René, which is why there is a spark of concern in her eyes when she asks the million-dollar question. “What brings you to New York?”

  I spare him the lie and do so on his behalf. “He had a fight here.”

  “I can see.” She pulls away from him, scrutinizing him for his life choice. “Are you in pain?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  She huffs. “Grown men beating each other in a boxing ring. You don’t think that’s a bit ridiculous?”

  Lance grins, taking her ballbusting for what it is. “It can feel that way at times.”

  “As long as you’re aware. Seems like no one has managed to knock any sense into you yet.”

  “Nana!” I exclaim, eyes widening.

  “I can see where Harper gets her candidness,” he drawls amused.

  “We Ancel women don’t mince words,” Nana offers without apology.

  “I like that about her.”

  “She seems to like something about you too.” I can feel the blush creep up my neck as she grills him. “So, you’re staying in town just for the holiday?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “How nice. Well, let’s get you fed. Dove, get the good china from the cabinet.”

  I do as I’m told. “Saw Charlie yesterday,” I say before giving Lance a conspiratorial wink. Nana sighs. I’ve been trying to get them together for a few years. Grandpa died six years ago and left us all with broken hearts. I don’t like Nana alone, but she assures me she prefers it this way.

  “Where did you see him?”

  “He let us tour the Garden. You know he’s staying in town for the holidays. I think he might be alone.”

  Nana looks over to Lance. “And then you realize how much your pushy granddaughter is like you and wonder if you should have raised her different. Bring me your bowl, Lance.”

  Lance chuckles, bringing his bowl to Nana as she ladles in some soup. “Only as much as you need. Never a bite more.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Once we’re all sitting at the table, Nana doesn’t hesitate. “In this house, we pray.”

  “We do much of the same at the ranch back home.”

  “Good.”

  After two bowls of soup and countless stories about me, Lance and I are hard-pressed to get a word in edgewise. This doesn’t seem to bother Lance, but when Nana gets to a fun anecdote about my first period, which I suffered while in New York on my fourteenth summer, I draw the line.

  “Nana!” I protest for the umpteenth time.

  “Nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “Still not great dining conversation.”

  “Do you have any children, Lance?”

  “Nana, what in the world?”

  “What?” she shrugs. “Just asking.”

  “He’s not married.”

  “That apparently hasn’t mattered in decades. Ask him if his parents were married,” she challenges me.

  “Actually,” Lance chimes in, “they were. But I can’t say there aren’t any bastards in the family.” Lance and Nana share a grin. “And no, ma’am. I’m waiting on kids.”

  “For how long?”

  “Till it feels right. I’m not ready to give them the attention they’ll need.”

  “That’s a good reason. Most kids say age. You know what I tell them? Don’t wait until you’re in your late thirties. You might have more money then, but nothing matches the energy of your twenties. Not all of us got it wrong.” She clamps a hand on Lance’s muscular shoulder. “But if you take good care of this heavenly body you have, you’ll be fine at any age.”

  I want to disappear inside the wall.

  “Nana!”

  “What?”

  “Please eat your soup.”

  Lance is full-on belly laughing.

  “You are a bit of a primitive man, are you not?” Nana asks Lance.

  “I am.”

  She turns to me. “You’re in for a treat, Dove. Your grandfather was the same. There’s a big difference between a passive man and a primitive man, passive men are horrible in the sack.”

  I’m choking now as she turns to me and rolls her eyes while pounding on my back. “I swear, you kids think you got here by immaculate conception.”

  Lance sips his kosher beer, all too enthralled as I try and catch my breath. I sip water, glaring at Nana as Lance gives me a slow wink.

  “I’ll keep all of this in mind, Mrs. Ancel.”

  “You do that. Nothing beats a satisfied woman. It would do you good to remember that. There’s something to be said for happy wife, happy life.”

  “Nana, Lance is just in town for Christmas.”

  “Better make the most of it then,” Nana says, eyeing Lance, whose chuckle slows as a seconds’ long silent conversation ensues between them. “I’ve got some babka if you’re interested.”

  “We really have to go—” I pipe up.

  “I would love some,” he says, pinning me in my seat.

  Lance helps me clear the dishes, and Nana and I stand at the sink when he excuses himself to the restroom.

  “He’s back for you.”

  “You don’t know that,” I whisper sharply, “and you didn’t have to lay into him like that. Really, Nana, periods and baby talk?”

  “You know your grandfather and I met at a party. A mutual friend’s party.”

  “I know.”

  “What you don’t know is that he was engaged to another woman.”

  “What?”

  “I was a friend to the woman he was engaged to. I was by her side through all of the planning. I was at the engagement party, and there when she picked out her dress. I was forced to watch all of it.”

  “That’s horrible.”

  “I never spoke up, and neither did he because surely you shouldn’t be in love and break off your engagement for a person you just met. It seemed like nonsense even though it felt like anything but. If I didn’t say something, I was going to watch the man I loved marry anoth
er woman.”

  “What happened?”

  “I spoke up. I told her I was in love with him and lost her friendship. We’d been friends for over ten years.”

  “I’m so sorry. What happened after?”

  “She broke ties with me, trashed my reputation, so I withdrew. I no longer went to parties. I was miserable, and I allowed all of it. I went to him the week before he got married and told him I wanted him to choose me. He sent me away with a broken heart. But the night before he was to marry her, he came to see me. He was angry, confused. He couldn’t understand what was happening. We fought, and we hardly knew each other. It was so strange, and still, I knew. I just knew that I wouldn’t have affection for any other man or be as attracted to another like I was to him. I wasn’t innocent. I was twenty-five. I’d had my share of fair-weather romances before I met him. But I knew with him, I knew, without a doubt, if he married her, I would never marry another. I just knew.”

  “So, he called it off?”

  “Yes. And we were married a week later. That doesn’t happen anymore. It’s considered ridiculous now in this day and age to commit to someone you hardly know. And though we were together most of our lives, your grandfather died partly a stranger to me. There are some things about him I’m sure I never asked. Things I’m curious about even after thirty-eight years together.”

  “So, you really think if he would have married her…”

  “I would be an old maid. You and your mother wouldn’t exist. If I’m old-fashioned, it’s in that way. I don’t ever want to move on from your grandfather. And you’re very much like me in that sense.”

  She plucks the bowl from my hand. “I’ll tell you this. He’s far less shaky than your grandfather was the night he called off his wedding, and even though he wasn’t as convinced as me, we got our years.” I bite my lip as she takes the last bowl from my soapy hands. “This is where you speak up.”

  “Nana, you know what happened. I’m terrifi—”

  “Speak up, Dove, or you’ll be forced to watch.”

  Lance

  “Proper New York hot dog from a vendor, check.” She swallows the bite she’s talking around before crumpling her wrapper with mine and tossing them into a nearby trash bin.

  “Jesus, it’s cold,” she says, blowing into her hands. I tug her to me by one of them, swiping the mustard off her finger with my lips. She watches, rapt, as I place a gentle kiss on the pad of it before I let go. It’s been like this all day, lingering looks, stolen glances, sentimental words, endless eye fucking. Neither of us has given in, only been on the verge of. She wanted me to kiss her at the Garden yesterday, and I wanted to, but I’m not sure what the right move is. I’m still testing the waters. We’ve fallen back into us quickly, easily. She wants me to dream big, and the only time I’ve ever really done that was when I’ve been with her. She’s always pushed me to want more for myself, aim higher. Maybe she does it with a gentle hand, but she pushes me, and I don’t want to need that. Need her. I can’t want to rely on her again if she won’t be there.

  She’s in love with her city. Her dreams came true here.

  And though there’s a ton of truth to her words about New York being a boxing mecca, my future is the ranch. For the first time since I showed up here, I’m wondering if it was a mistake to come.

  Because it’s the same fucking predicament we were in two years ago.

  “What are you thinking?” she asks as we cross the street from Rockefeller Center, making our way toward NBC Studios. She wanted to do a few touristy things today, so I got a full tour of the city. I’d passed on ice skating beneath the iconic tree, and she was fine with it. With her show coming up and my fight, we can’t risk any injuries. We’re both, in a sense, athletes. Instead, we drank hot chocolate and watched from the glass above, admiring the families around us as she tried to grill me about things back home. But I don’t want to dwell there, not yet. Not at all, really.

  “Lance, how is Jack?”

  “He’s good.”

  “Uh huh. And Trevor?”

  “A little shit.”

  “And your mother?”

  “Hanging in. I need to pick her up a present while we’re out.”

  “Okay, we’ll hit a few shops on the way back.”

  “Sounds good.”

  She turns to me as hordes of shaky skaters circle the rink behind her. “Now, tell me how things really are.”

  “Priss,” I start, and she takes the hot chocolate from my hands before I can take another sip. “I’m not done with that.”

  “You are if you don’t start talking.”

  “Things are good. We’re making it work.”

  “That’s generic and not good enough. Tell me about home.”

  “Well, there are cows and chickens. And we feed them. And when the cows get fat enough, we take them to auction.”

  “Smartass,” she mumbles.

  “Give me that hot chocolate.”

  “Not a chance.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “That’s obvious.” There’s an edge to her voice. “But how can we really catch up if you aren’t being truthful?”

  “Still no bullshit, eh?”

  “Have I changed much?”

  “Not at all,” I say with a smirk. “And neither have I, so if you don’t hand that fucking delicious hot chocolate over, I’m going to throw you over my shoulder and redden that perfect ass of yours.”

  “Like that?” She beams, shimmying her perfect derrière toward me before taking a sip of my chocolate. “Mmm,” she moans, eyes widening. “Why, it is fucking delicious.”

  “That’s it,” I say, charging toward her as she thrusts it at me.

  “Here, you shit. I just wanted to know about the family.”

  “Should come see us sometime,” I say. “Invitation’s open. See for yourself.”

  “I just may do that.”

  “Tony’s living there now.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep. And the other guest room bed is really uncomfortable, so you would need to share a room with me.”

  She rolls her eyes. “I’d rather sleep with the cows.”

  I lean in and wipe the chocolate from the corner of her mouth with my thumb before sliding it over her bottom lip. “You sure about that?”

  Her lips part and I know she’s close to biting my thumb when I pull it away. She licks the chocolate from her lip. “I’m sure they’re more conversational than you. More honest.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it, okay? This is my break from all the bullshit.”

  “Is that what this is?” She asks with an edge of hurt to her voice.

  “What did you want it to be?”

  She shakes her head and hands me back my cup. “You win, I’m done with the questions.” Not long after we leave the rink, I get lost in my head, and she’s in front of me again as I stare at the entrance of Radio City. She taps my temple. “What’s going on in there?”

  “Nothing?”

  “Doesn’t look like nothing,” she regards me carefully.

  “It’s been two minutes, Priss, and already more questions.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “I just told you I didn’t.”

  She shakes her head. “That’s not what I’m talking about.” She glances away, and I know exactly what subject she’s broaching. She can feel my resentment, no matter how much I’ve tried to hide it.

  Do I want to talk about it? Yes. But I don’t think I can yet without unleashing some of the lingering anger I feel. But the longer I’m with her, the more resentful I’m becoming. Because of the way we fit, the way we’ve always fit. I hadn’t imagined a single moment of it. I’d romanticized nothing. We were—and still are—as good as my memory of us, and even now, I can’t understand why she walked away completely. “Nah, really, I’m good.”

  “You’re a terrible liar.” She squeezes my hand, and I didn’t realize I’d taken hers again. Or that sh
e’d taken mine. Either way, there’s been little time today where we haven’t been touching. But it’s as if we’re both too afraid to push beyond that.

  “So, there’s a tour here,” she says as we walk inside the building. “It’s about the Rockefellers, and it’s crazy. When you see just how much of their agenda was hiding in plain sight, it’s just…baffling. It’s less touristy than the studio tour but still touristy. You in?”

  “Sure.”

  Some time later, after walking most of the building while the tour guide explains the meaning behind every painted mural, I realize I’ve spent more time memorizing Harper than I have paying attention to the socialist agenda of the rich and powerful. It’s surreal being here, knowing she was always just a plane ride away. She did everything she set out to do. I’m proud of her. In a way, I envy her. I feel like I have so far to go, and she’s accomplished so much. Toward the end of the tour, we’re led outside to see the Rockefellers’ purposefully constructed middle finger amongst the New York City landscape. I stand transfixed on the statue just outside the building across the street from St. Patrick’s Cathedral. A bronze Atlas stands a story tall, holding a globe-shaped sphere on his shoulders.

  “Atlas was installed in 1937 and created by the sculptor Lee Lawrie. The piece has since been appropriated as a symbol of the Objectivist movement, the philosophy being the ideal man be a producer who lives by his own effort and does not give or receive the undeserved, who honors achievement and rejects envy. Objectivism holds that there is no greater moral goal than achieving happiness. But one cannot achieve happiness by wish or whim. Can anyone tell me who a major player was in bringing this movement forward?”

  “Ayn Rand. Atlas Shrugged,” someone pipes up from the mixed crowd.

  “Correct. This is bold capitalist agenda…”

  The tour guide’s voice falls away as I look on at the statue.

  “It’s such a thin line, isn’t it?” Harper whispers, standing next to me.

  “What?”

  “Between being a realist, believing only what you can see, and believing in what you can’t, entrusting faith.” She turns to look up at me, but my gaze remains on the statue. “It’s you,” she says softly beside me, grabbing my hand, “it’s the way I’ve always seen you, Lance, with the whole world on your shoulders, but never aware of just how much you shine. It’s like you’re paralyzed by the weight when just a few steps away,” she nods toward the church, “you can accept a little faith and just let some of it go.”