“For what I’m working on,” he said, still exasperated, “I need to turn the page from all of that.”
I went back to the vegetables. “And you think getting married will do the trick?”
“Emme.” He plucked the fork from my fingers before I could launch the cauliflower.
I lifted my brows in question, but he ignored that. He shifted closer to me and pressed my hand between both of his. I swallowed hard.
“I think marrying my best friend—the girl from back home, the one the media called my high school sweetheart in all of the Heisman packages because there are so damn many photos of us together after my games, the one who waited all this time for me to find my way back to her—will do the fucking trick.”
Before I could stop myself to think through the implications, the grenade blast this would blow in our friendship, in my entire life, I said, “Okay.”
We exitedthe restaurant into the bracing night air, but even that wasn’t enough to snap me out of the fog ofwhat just happened?
My head felt disconnected from my body, like I was in the deep of a bad sinus infection. My thoughts were glossy bubbles, drifting away and popping into nothing before I knew what they were. Could I blame liquor for this? Probably not.
It took a minute to realize there was a group of people—men, mostly younger, early twenties—gathered on the sidewalk. They were all talking at once, some doing their best impression of Ryan’s passing stance while others simply bounced on the balls of their feet, vibrating with the pleasure of seeing Ryan Ralston in the flesh.
Sometimes I forgot that this was his life. That, to the rest of the world, he was a football phenomenon.
To me, he’d always be Ryan, the moody kid who secretly loved math and kept me tangerine rich.
The group lurched closer and I took a large step back. Ryan’s arm circled my shoulders and he held a hand out to them, saying, “Give my girl some room, fellas.”
The bubbles in my head all simmered and popped.
The men immediately backed up, showering me in a drunken chorus of “Miss, we’re so sorry” and “Ma’am, we’re at your service” and “Dammit, Doug, stop ruining everything!”
It must’ve been obvious that I didn’t know what to do because Ryan leaned in close, whispering, “Relax. I’ll handle this.”
I tried to wriggle out of the photos—because why did anyone need me in a photo with Ryan and his fans?—but he kept that arm locked around my shoulders. I smiled through it all, even when Ryan growled and snapped “Don’t even fucking think about it” when one guy went in for a side hug I hadn’t requested.
It was fun to see his fangs come out. He didn’t do that too often, instead choosing to let his glacial stares do all the talking.
Everyone got a photo, including Doug, who really did have a knack for ruining things, and Ryan ended it with a crisp wave and “Thanks for the support, boys.”
Ryan led me toward the SUV I hadn’t noticed waiting at the curb while the guys continued talking at him and shouting advice for the next season. One day, if I worked hard enough, maybe I’d develop the confidence necessary to tell professionals how to do a job that I’d merely observed.
“Oh, no, that’s okay,” I said as he opened the door. “I’ll walk.”
“If you think I’m leaving you here right now, you’re out of your fucking mind.” His hands settled on my hips, gripping tight. “It’s ten thirty at night, freezing cold, and there are sevendrunk guys over there who would think nothing of following you all the way home. Get in the fucking car, Emmeline.”
Still suffering from too much emotional sinus pressure to process anything quickly, I bobbed my head but made no other move. A low, rumbly noise sounded in his throat and then Ryan picked me up and deposited me in the back seat without so much as a grunt. The last time anyone tried to pick me up, I was half dead from anaphylactic shock and Teddy had made it seem likea lotof work.
Ryan followed me into the back seat, shooting a frigid glare through the tinted window at the men still shouting at him. The car pulled into traffic without wasting a second.
“Bowen, we’re going to the North End,” Ryan called to the driver.
Bowen nodded and hung a hard right turn. I glanced over to find Ryan staring at me, his gaze steely. He remained silent while my too-full head spun.
Did I just get engaged?
Or was it fake-engaged?
How had this happened?
How would I explain it to my friends? To my mother?
And was this any better than what I’d had before? This solved some of my problems, but none of the big ones. None of the sad, tragic, lonely ones that would linger long after Ryan’s deal went through. And wouldn’t it be so much worse when it was over?
