I absently ran a hand through the strands. “He liked it.” I hesitated to add, “He said it was gorgeous.”
She drew a checkmark in the air. “Oh, yeah. We’re keeping Daddy Football.”
Bowen was waitingfor me when I left school for the day. He passed me a cup of hot chocolate and a box of brownies from a bakery on the opposite side of the city. The drink was piping hot and tasted like rich, milky heaven.
I offered Bowen half a brownie, and thankfully he accepted. It seemed like the least I could do for him after he helped Ryan evacuate me and Ines from the flood yesterday.
We drove to Ryan’s building near the Common without much chatter, which I appreciated after an interminably long day of cramps and begging seven- and eight-year-olds to follow directions.
When we pulled into the underground garage, he mentioned something about picking up some packages from the mail room and bringing them upstairs for me. I didn’t know what I was expecting but as I stood in the kitchen surrounded by gifts from just about everyone in pro sports, I knew it wasn’t this. Flowers, chocolates, blankets and bath towels, even matching Cartier watches.
Andfivesets of iPads with our names engraved on them. That was ten iPads altogether.
Those were coming to school with me tomorrow. I didn’t care whose names were carved into the case.
On his last trip to the penthouse, Bowen handed me a small leather case. “From Mr. Ralston,” he said.
I unzipped the case to find another black credit card, a spare set of access cards for the building and garage, and a shiny new phone. Before I could figure out how to respond to any of this, my phone—the real one, not the platinum-dipped status symbol—flashed with my stepmother’s face.
I didn’t usually ignore Danielle’s calls. She was the neutral bridge between me and my dad, somehow, and she always respected my limits. Illogical as they seemed to be.
I didn’t have a lot of emotional energy to speak with her right now but I knew I had to. Danielle was too polite to call repeatedly or blow up my phone with texts but she would worry, which turned my dad into the bloodthirsty defensive tackle of his earlier days. Old habits and all.
The last thing I needed was a voicemail from my father reminding me that I was an ungrateful bitch.
“I have to take this,” I said to Bowen, pointing to my phone. “Any chance you want this hot honey collection? I will never need this quantity of honey.”
He studied the elaborately packed gift. “I’ll give it a shot and report back. I’ll see ya tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Bowen.” When he closed the front door behind him, I tapped Danielle’s call and plopped down on the cozy blue sectional sofa. “Hey, Dani.”
“Congratulations!” she cried, dragging the word out so long it was more like a subway train with bad brakes. “We’re so happy for you!”
“Oh, thank you.” I sounded like someone had poured mud into my palm and told me it was a great honor.
“When did this all happen? Tell me everything. I want the whole story!”
The problem with Danielle—and it really was a problem for me because it complicated the shit out of my life—was that I liked her. She was outrageously nice. More than anyone who’d been on the receiving end of my viciously cold shoulders had any right to be.
She liked to send me clothes that “just didn’t work” for her but we weren’t the same sizes and didn’t have the same style. She always included me in holiday plans even though I hadn’t visited in years. She’d send calendar invites for birthday parties and barbeques, and respond withMaybe next time!when I declined. She’d call to check in and casually mention that my dad was going in for another knee surgery or that my half brothers would be in Boston for a business trip soon if I was available for dinner or drinks. She constantly shipped little packages from specialty shops with cups and pillows and cashmere blankets bearing puns and sayings on them because she thought they fitmy humor. They didn’t, but I appreciated the thoughtfulness. I always kept them.
I also knew, in a very fundamental way, that I could call Danielle in the middle of the night and thefirstthing out of her mouth would be, “I’ll be right there.”
I didn’t like to admit how much it hurt that she was the closest thing I had to a truly parental figure in my life.
“I mean, it happened kind of fast,” I said, reaching back for the talking points I’d honed this weekend. “Ryan and I, you know?—”
“I think you two were meant for each other right from the start,” she cut in.
“We do go way back.” I tried to punch some life into my words but ended up sounding like I was annoyed. All-around failing at this functional human thing again.
“I really think it’s important to be friends first,” she said.
I kicked off my shoes and settled deeper into the sofa. I should’ve brought the brownies with me but I was down now and not getting back up. “Yeah,” I said. “Really important.”
“Okay, girlie.” I heard her clap her hands and click a pen. “Fill me in on the plans. What are we thinking? Are we staying local? Are we going places? Is this a destination wedding? Do you have a coordinator—because I can take care of that for you tonight. If you want, no pressure. You know I’m not here to stress you out aboutanything.Okay?” Before I could respond, she went on. “Do you have a season in mind? Or anything you just love and know you have to incorporate? Or maybe you want to say fuck it all and just elope, which is not wrong.” She snorted out a laugh. “I should probably ask what Ralston wants but let’s be honest here, all the boys need to be happy are pigs-in-a-blanket during cocktail hour. Ask me how I know.”
She hooted out a laugh. I tried to join in—good sport and such—but all I managed was a burpy throat noise.
