"She wouldn't stop though. She got in her car, and I slid into the passenger's seat, still trying to talk some sense into her. Once she started driving, I finally realized how altered she was, but it was too late. I tried to get her to stop immediately. She finally stopped by crashing into a fence."
"Oh my God! Were you hurt? Was she? Was she killed?"
Xavier looks out the window for a moment. He finishes the rest of his beer. "Nah, we were both lucky. But after the crash, she started sobbing that she would be in big trouble if they found out she was driving, and she begged me to switch seats with her. I felt so badly for her. I had no idea that she'd had a long history of substance abuse and had several traffic infractions already. Her father'd threatened to cut her off if she did it again. So, like a dolt, I switched spots. When the authorities showed up, they called her father. Everyone in England knows who he is. He accused me of trying to kill his precious daughter and promised I'd never kick a ball in Britain again. Before dawn, I was let go from both the National Team and the Bombers. No one in the entire bloody country would even take my calls."
I reach out and put my hand on his. "I'm so sorry. And if you get cut from the Terrors …"
"That's it. That's all she wrote. So the fact that Coach Janssen has asked me to come to this reception tonight is a bloody good sign. There will be media there, so for all intents and purposes, he's saying that the Buzzards are interested. I truly appreciate the vote of confidence. I would simply feel better if it was a firm deal in writing. Speaking of which," he pulls out his phone again, "I can't believe Tony hasn't texted me back yet. Where the bloody hell is he?"
Suddenly, Xavier notices my hand on his. He flips his over and gives mine a quick squeeze before withdrawing it. "But that's the past and this chance with the Buzzards is my last. I've got to do everything right, including staying out of even the slightest hint of impropriety."
"I'm about the least controversial person you'll meet. I mean, I'm an accountant. There's nothing exciting about that. I mean, other than my momentary status on ClikClak, but I'm sure that will die off as quickly as it started."
Xavier smiles. "As long as you're not running a pyramid scheme or anything like that."
I hold up three fingers. "I promise, Girl Scouts honor. No pyramids here. What you see is what you get. You know that. I'm not a schemer or social climber."
"I hope not. I just need to get through this without making a scene. No negative press. I can't afford it."
"I'll be on my best wallflower behavior tonight. I'm not one of those socialite girls, in case you couldn't tell." That makes me think. "Whatever happened to Phaedra?" I'm thrilled to be able to say that name out loud. It's so very British and posh, and I've never had the chance to work it into casual conversation before.
"Nothing. It was all over the news that I was driving and that I'd been drinking that night. The media had me pegged as a bad-boy party animal athlete, and if you listened to Edmund Jones spin it, an attempted murderer. As far as I know, Phaedra never went to rehab or dealt with anything. She walked away scot-free, and I lost everything."
Phaedra just became the ugly mean girl villain in my book. I will never think the name is delightful again, no matter how very British it sounds.
No one treats my husband like that and gets away with it.
Chapter 28: Xavier
Three—or four—rounds later, and we're ready to head to The Tower. As we stand to leave, Ophelia picks up her bouquet and our waitress stops dead in her tracks, taking in the full picture of my suit, her white dress, and the flowers.
"Oh my Gawd, did you guys just get married?"
Even in the dim light of the bar, I can see Ophelia blush. She's going to have to get over that, or she's going to give everything away.
Though it is a lovely look on her. Truly lovely indeed.
The folks at the next table overhear and immediately begin clinking their beer glasses with whatever utensils are on their table. Ophelia bites her lip. I slide my hand around her waist and lean in.
"They want us to kiss."
She nods but continues to look around the bar at all the patrons who are watching us expectantly.
I pull her a little closer and turn her body so it's flush with mine. "We can do this."
"We have to do this," she whispers back.
I nod in agreement. Normally I reserve kissing for moments of true intimacy, but that's out the window now. There's no such thing as normal anymore. If there was, I wouldn't be in America, married to a stranger, and about to ditch my British citizenship.
This will be fine. I'll kiss her just long enough to satiate the crowd, and then we'll go back to how we were before.
Friends.
I lean in, feeling her warm breath before our lips meet. I close my eyes and make contact.
This is not what I expected.
Kissing Ophelia should mean nothing. It should feel like nothing. It shouldn't matter.
