For now. Who knows how long that will last, given that I’d taken my things and fled from our house—Brayden’s house—and blocked his and Asher’s numbers. “I am.”
“And as for your husband’s assets…” She glances at the paperwork and up at me as if realizing who thatForsythis.
“Big Peaches fan?” I ask warily.
“We’re season ticket holders.”
And now I’m here, in her cramped office that’s piled with various manilla folders, about to tell her that I’m separating from a Peaches player. Maybe instead of worrying about financial aid paperwork, I should have brought an NDA. “I’m not sure—” There’s no real way to explain the situation. “I’m exploring my options. Financially speaking.”
Monet goes back to reviewing my papers. “If you’re married, your spouse’s income qualifies as yours. And unfortunately his salary puts him well above the threshold where we’d be able to extend financial aid. Now, if you’re legally separated…”
“We’re not.” Just separated in all the ways that matter.
“Then I’m sorry. Much of my job involves dealing with these kinds of complexities, and there are times when I’m afraid there isn’t much we can do.”
I swallow around the tears suddenly in my throat. Not for the first time, I wish I’d taken Brayden’s aunt’s advice and squirreled away some of his money in a secret account.But you didn’t. My vision pulses. My migraines are back—triggered by stress, disappointment. Heartbreak.Poor little rich girl. The phrase feels like a mental slap. I have a vial of meds in my purse, a ninety-day supply I convinced the pharmacy to dispense for me. Who knows what will happen when the season’s over?
“Thank you,” I say. “I realize it was a longshot.”
Monet’s face softens. “Is there a possibility that you and your husband will reconcile?”
I shake my head. It isn’t possible. Not when I married him to help clean up his image and only managed to drag his name through the mud. Various internet message boards are starting to post rumors that something is wrong in the Peaches clubhouse.Yeah, me.
I’m not a homewrecker, technically. But technically doesn’t matter when I feel like I’ve taken a wrecking ball to the life we were building together. It turns out that some things, once broken, can’t be put back together. Sometimes you just have to pick through the pieces and move on.
I applyfor a job at the local clinic doing patient intake. They’ll call me, they say. But my phone doesn’t ring. I check at the medical library—no, they only take volunteers—at various campus services.Work-study students only. Half of the jobs listed online bounce my resume back, the chirpy AI chatbots thanking me for my interest and telling me I don’t have the necessary qualifications.
Fine. Business is often best handled in person. So I dress carefully and go down to the local drugstore. Request an application.
The clerk—a goth kid with a face of white pancake makeup who can’t be more than eighteen—stares at me as if I’m a time traveler. “The application’s online.” She tacks on anobviouslyunder her breath.
“Sorry,” I say, “I didn’t know.”
She eyes my nails—acrylics that cost a few hundred dollars for the set, which felt reasonable at the time and now feels garish—the wedding ring I can’t bring myself to remove from my left hand. “Did you grow up under a rock?” she asks.
Just up in a tower. One I dreamed of flying away from. But I’ve come down from that now and it doesn’t feel like a flight. No, it feels like a fall.
Chapter Fifty-Six
Brayden
“Where’s Asher?”The first thing I say when I storm into Coach’s office just before our game. Asher isn’t at the ballpark—hasn’t been for the past four games. He also isn’t answering his texts. I told him not to come after me and maybe he’d taken that to mean that we were?—
I don’t want to even think the worddone.
Coach looks up from a pile of scouting reports. “I believe you mean, Good afternoon, sir.”
No, I really don’t. “Where is he?” I’m shouting, possibly loud enough to be heard in the clubhouse. Everyone will know there’s a problem. That’s fine—I’m done pretending when there isn’t. How many times did I come in hungover and no one cared until I made the team look bad? I won’t let them sweep what they’re doing to Asher under a similar rug.
“Adler made a decision he’s living with the consequences of.” Coach raises an eyebrow. “I suggest you not do the same.”
“So you benched him?”
“I advised him that the team comes first—a conversation I believe you and I had earlier this season. Besides, I would thinkyou would know that, given that you seem…closerin recent days.”
So Coach knows about Asher and me. Of course he knows. Someone snitched or a photo leaked or… Now he’s looking at me, lip curled in distaste that someonequeerhas the audacity to stand before him.
Queer. That part of me I’d avoided for so long: that I spent years drowning in whiskey and whatever else. The part of me that wanted to be loved and didn’t know what that meant until Savannah and Asher showed me.
