My answering chuckle was cut off by the sound of my phone chiming from inside my pocket. “Sorry,” I said, fishing it out.
A slew of texts poured in from my lawyer, saying not to worry, that he and my PR rep were already on it.
On what?I texted back.
He sent me a link, and I spent a few minutes reading in frustrated silence. The Commissioner of the USFL was talking shit about our lawsuit against the league on social media.
Merry Fucking Christmas.
Thanks, Pete. Turning my phone off now,I texted.
I flicked it off and dropped it on the coffee table in front of the couch.
“Sorry about that,” I told Ella.
“No worries,” she said. “Everything okay? I can keep myself distracted if you need some time.”
I shook my head. “The Commissioner of the league is being a prick on Twitter.”
She set the card deck on the cribbage board and cracked her knuckles, expression dark. “Want me to create an egg account and call him bad names?”
I grinned. “No need. My lawyer is already on it. We’re not supposed to talk about the lawsuit, so the Commissioner might get his ass whooped in court over this.”
“Good. That man is such a jackass.” She picked the cards back up. “Okay, so, the first thing you should know about cribbage is that it’s eighty percent luck of the draw, ten percent desperation, and ten percent raw talent.”
I wanted to hug her for moving on so easily.
We played a few practice games, with her teaching me as we went. Cribbage was pretty straightforward. The only thing that tripped me up was the point system. Fifteen-two, four, six? What the hell was that?
“So where’d you go to art school?” I asked as I shuffled the cards in between games.
“I did two years at the Rhode Island School of Design, but then I ended up coming home. My grandfather and Jack’s wife were both diagnosed with terminal cancer that year.”
I shook my head. “Goddamn cancer. Too many of my family members have had it.”
“Mine too. Grandpa had lung cancer, and he wasn’t even a smoker. Renee had breast cancer. It went into remission several years before, so we all thought she was clear. Then it came back.”
“God, that sucks. I’m so sorry.”
“Thanks.” She tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear, expression troubled. “What’s super fucked up is that she’s listed as a survivor.”
I stared at her. “What?”
“A lot of medical research organizations and big-name charities have changed the definition of surviving it. So now, if you have breast cancer and you live cancer-free for five years after diagnosis, you’re marked as a survivor.”
“Even if it comes back and you die from it?”
“Yup. Because it makes them look better. Like they’re actually making headway, even though they’re not.”
I rubbed a hand over my face. “Let me guess, it’s all so they can profit off of it?”
She tipped her beer toward me. “Bingo. Long story short, I came home when they got sick and never finished school. The rest was mostly self-taught, though I’ve taken some art classes up here.”
I could sense that there was more to the story, but she’d already shared so much with me that I couldn’t bring myself to press her on it, despite my curiosity. “You’re really talented.”
She sent me a small smile. “Thanks.”
“Where do you get your inspiration for the more, uh, controversial cards?”
