Page 25 of The Game Plan

An empty carton lies on its side, surrounded by spilled milk. A frying pan looks like someone couldn’t decide whether to scramble or fry eggs – streams of white are hard on the steel. There are stains on the white counters – coffee cup rings, what looks like strawberry milk or protein shake marks. A grill has been used and left dirty in the oven, door open. Packaging has been balled and tossed around the surfaces. And surrounding the toaster is what I can only describe as crumb corner.

“Who actually lives like this?”

Who would buy or rent a pad as expensive as this and treat it like a scrap heap?

A guy who has no appreciation for how lucky he is, that’s who.

“I can’t do this,” I say into the room that feels like student accommodation. “No job or visa is worth this.”

I storm back to the very nice bedroom for my things, pulling up the handle on my luggage, ready to leave. Then, I take a deep breath in. The expensive scent in this clean sanctity soothes my rational mind.

“I moved to New York alone as an eighteen-year-old girl. I made a career. I grew a company. I am surviving being cheated on by the man I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life with.” I exhale. “I can do this.” Because the alternative is to give up everything I’ve worked for and go back to small-town Canada to tell my parents I failed.

Frankly, the one saving grace to this whole debacle is that my parents are still ignorant to how badly I’ve messed up. I know this because my mom hasn’t yet flown into New York or blown up my phone with daily anti-affirmations.

I leave my belongings where they are, push up the sleeves of my shirt and head back to the main living space. Under the sink, I find yellow rubber gloves, a trash bag and antibacterial spray. Then I set to work.

11

SEPTEMBER

Jax

Chipper

I wake feeling chipper this time. I played chess online with Suzuki until sometime after 1 a.m. and Sienna’s early morning door battering was killer.

Contrary to her opinion, I’m not a moody teenager but my body clock is messed up from playing in the pros for five years. Our game schedule depends on television coverage, where in the country we’re playing, and whether coach is punishing us with a grueling training schedule. Hockey guys are also incredible nappers. Part of our routine is a long pregame nap and surprise, surprise, that disrupts our evening sleep, too.

I take my first leak of the day and pad through my condo to find Sienna, starting to feel a smidge guilty for the way I abandoned her to figure out her own living arrangements. But if there’s something I’ve already deduced about my wife, it’s that she knows how to get shit done.

I wouldn’t be surprised if one of my guest bedrooms is already decked out in pink soft furnishings, with neat rows of makeup and nail paint lined up along the bathroom vanity unit. A few panty liners and a tube of Vagisil on display by the washbasin. Some of those heatless curler thingies my sister uses and maybe a lymphatic drainage crystal or two by the bed.

I have an older sister, I know these things. A true Gen Z. In touch with the times. New age.

As I approach the main living area I can smell the harsh chemicals of cleaning products. My housemaid doesn’t come on a Sunday.

Fuck, have I slept through to Monday?

I check my watch. Nope, still Sunday.

But the lounge is immaculate. The shades are open, showing off the reason I bought this place – the view across the pond and vast resort-type gardens. I’m a big fan of living the highlife. Private jets and Manhattan a short ride away works for me. I’m New York born and bred. Even for me, though, the hustle can get too noisy sometimes. The hockey season is insanely great and incredibly long. I need quiet sometimes and living in this prestigious development in Garden City gives me that. It also means I have some hot, rich, highly datable neighbors from time to time.

There’s no sign of Sienna – other than every gleaming white surface of my home – but the streak of light shining down the spiral staircase tells me the door to my private roof terrace is open.

A hiss alerts me to percolating coffee in the pot – see, there are perks to being married – so I pour myself a mug, grab a pair of shades, and head up to the sunlight in search of my wife.

I’ve barely sniffed the coffee and my heart seems to be beating faster than it ought to be. I’m actually feeling spritely enough that I might apologize for being clipped with Sienna for turning up so early.

I concede, maybe it would have been nice to help her move in. Maybe waking up hard from dreaming about going down on her in a wedding chapel has, ironically, softened my mood. Or what I did after I woke has, maybe.

The door to the terrace has been latched open. I take a second to soak in the late summer sun and the smell of fresh cut grass. The landscapers keep this place perfect all year round, which is part of the justification for the extortionate service tax.

But my late morning glow is cut short by the sight of Sienna sitting in a swinging basket seat. Initially, I think she looks serene, content in the space, wistful almost as she looks out across the grounds. I wonder if she likes it. Feel irrationally proud that I can offer her this place to live.

On closer inspection, though, she isn’t contentedly horizon-gazing at all; she’s holding the emerald engagement ring I took from her yesterday before her Pilates class. I guess she found it on the dining table, not that it was hidden, and now she’s fixed on the stone. Maybe the memories it holds.

I’m not near enough to confirm but I’d guess from the way that she wipes a knuckle under her eye, beneath her gold-framed shades, she’s crying.