"Right. And I'm sure finding out about his ex-wife had nothing to do with you bailing on dinner tonight."
"I was working."Click, click, click, fucking click, thwacccckkkk.
"MMA style from the looks?"
"Don’t knock my cardio. Maximum calorie burnage and barely breaking a sweat."
Charlie laughs, but it’s not the goddamned guffaw I need.
It’s gentle. Understanding.
Which somehow makes everything hurt even more.
"Holly..."
"Don't." My voice cracks. "Just... don't."
The walls close in, squeezing until every insecurity I've tried to bury comes bubbling to the surface. "How did I not know?"
She sets her glass down with a soft clink. "It's not exactly his favorite topic."
"That's not the point." The frustration building in my chest threatens to choke me. "I've known him my whole life. How did I not know he was married? And divorced?"
"Because you were away at school when it happened. And after... well, it wasn't exactly dinner table conversation. None of us even met her."
“Even Sierra looked like she knew." The bitterness in my voice surprises even me. "But I guess they’re still friends. Secret handshake, probably."
I spit the words out, skidding to a complete stop before adding bootie calls and dickie dunking to the list.
The very picture of restraint.
"Holly..."
"It’s fine." I drain my glass. "Clearly, blondes have more fun. And better WiFi, apparently, because this—" I gesture at my laptop's black screen"—is seriously starting to feel personal."
"That's not?—"
"Charlie, really... I'm used to being the one left behind." I slam my laptop closed harder than necessary. "Story of my life, right? Always too young, too loud, too... much."
"That's not?—"
"Seven years, Charlie. There are seven years between me and Chance. You and Eve sit in the middle, so you get to slide right in with the guys whenever you want.
At best, I get a clear view to watch from the sidelines."
Charlie's quiet for a long moment. "Is that what this is about? Still feeling left out?"
"No. Yes. Maybe." I drag my fingers through my hair, frustrated with my inability to articulate this ache in my chest. "How can I ever expect Dad to take me seriously when I can't even get Chance to stop shoving me back to the kids' table?"
"Holly—"
"And I know it shouldn't matter. I know I shouldn't let it get to me. But..." I swallow hard. "I can't have this in my head during—this week.”
I stop just in the nick of time. I can’t tell her. Not that I don’t trust her—I do.
I love what I do. I’m fucking good at it. I’m not self-conscious, per se. I'm just easily distracted.
My brain drags the smallest observations and details in for rapid-fire processing.
