Hot and full of hot ballplayers.One of whom is a doorway away from me—too close. The other of whom is probably moving into a hotel room or new rental—too far.
Me: Exciting
Which it is, judging by the nervous beat of my heart in my chest. Victoria is always there for me, except right now she’s on the other side of the country, with three boyfriends and a successful adult content channel that takes up most of her time. For the first time it really hits me that I’m not just far from home: I’m completely alone.
I want to text someone else: other friends, Cherri.Asher. No, we just met. We aren’t friends. He’s Brayden’s teammate and I’m Brayden’s wife. I shouldn’t, but that doesn’t stop me from pulling up his number.
Hey, it’s Savannah.No, that sounds weird. Fake casual.
Is Atlanta always this hot?No, I’m not going to text about the weather.
I got in the house.Which makes it sound like an ordeal, which it was.
Finally, I erase all of those and lock my phone. Asher is probably busy, and besides, he’s definitely not thinking about me.
“You can do this,” I say to the mirror, even if the woman in it still looks skeptical. But this isn’t any different from watching my father negotiate a business deal. I roll my shoulders a fewtimes. Take a tube of lipstick and scrawlYou got thisin the corner of the mirror. Corny, sure, but it makes me feel a little better. I do got this—or at least I can probably pretend for an hour or so.
So I tap my knuckles against the mirror and armor myself with a smile, then descend the stairs to where voices are already rising from the living room.
In the intervening few hours,Brayden changed too, out of his joggers and into a collared shirt and pants still creased from a dry cleaners’ iron. His hair is slicked neatly. He’s holding a glass of brown liquor. The only indication anything is amiss is the slight peek of white at his knuckles and the silence in the room like I’ve interrupted an argument.
He smiles when he sees me—not the sharp Brayden grin but something lovesick bordering on dopey. At least he’s a good actor. “You look nice,” he says.
“I could say the same to you.” I turn to the older couple standing near him. “Mr. and Mrs. Forsyth, it’s so nice to meet you. Brayden’s told me so much about you.” Which is true, not in words so much as the line of tension he gets around his mouth every time he mentions his family.
Whatever I expected, they appear…normal. His father—Brad, according to Wikipedia—is an older version of Brayden and Blake, with blond hair daubed gray at his temples and the look of a former athlete who now spends a lot of his time sitting down. What Brayden might look like in thirty years.Not that you’ll be around to see that.Like his son, he’s holding a glasswith several fingers of liquor—meaning either he pours with a heavier hand, or Brayden is already deep into his drink.
Brad doesn’t introduce himself. In fact, he barely looks at me.
Brayden’s mother, on the other hand, offers me the hand not holding her glass of white wine. “I’m Barb. It’s so lovely to meet you.” She ushers me into a hug, thin arms clinking with bracelets as she kisses the air by my cheek, leaving a waft of expensive perfume in her wake.
“I hope you know what you’re getting yourself into with Brayden,” she says as she draws back. She glances at the blank walls around her for good measure.
Next to me, Brayden’s hand is even tighter around his glass. Right, this is myjobnow, one I’ll be paid for in tuition, meds, and a roof over my head, even if that roof means sleeping in a bed thirty feet from Brayden’s.
I smile and lean against Brayden, who wraps a possessive arm around my waist. His palm fits in the generous curve of my hip.
Barb, for some reason, frowns.
“It’s so thoughtful of Bray to let me decorate,” I say.
His parents gave each other alookthat indicates thatBraydenandthoughtfuldon’t often appear in the same sentence. “Yes”—Barb tips her wine glass toward me as if in a toast—"I can always tell a woman with anappetitefor a good shopping spree.”
Oh, so it’s like that. She doesn’t approve of her son’s new wife. Her son’s newfatwife. All right,Barb, game on.
My smile hardens. I don’t want her to think she’s gotten to me, but I don’t want her to think I’m too stupid to notice being insulted to my face. “My father always taught me to look for a good deal.” Which is true, even if his idea of a good deal has left me with a zeroed bank account.
“Well, I’m sure you know when you’ve found one.” Barb scans her son above the rim of her wineglass. “What line of work is your father in?”
I straighten. Put on my best prep school smile. “He’s a businessman.” Which is true—an identity I don’t think he’ll ever lose, even after he lost his business.
“And you take after him?” Barb asks.Tell me, are you as much of a gold digger as we assume you are?
“In some respects.” I lean a little more against Brayden. Make a show of reaching for his glass and take the tiniest sip, leaving a ring of lipstick on the rim like a claim.
“Sav is taking classes at Morningside,” Brayden says. “On, uh…” He trails off like he’s forgotten that particular detail.Or wasn’t listening in the first place.
“Bioinformatics,” I fill in, hoping that sounded suitably impressive.
