“I’ve always said that a man’s success begins with support at home.” Barb’s voice is candy sweet.So is antifreeze, and it’s toxic.
“Of course, looking after Bray during the season is my top priority.” I peer up at him with what I hope is affection, even if I can’t keep the aggravation out of my eyes. Fortunately, Brayden is making the same face—his eyes widened comically, a vein pulsing in his forehead.
Don’t laugh. If I look at him any longer, I’m going to crack up. The edge of his mouth ticks up like he’s thinking the same thing. This is a mess, but at least we’re in it together.
“Look at them, Brad,” Barb says to her husband. “Isn’t it so wonderful to see Brayden settled?”
“Didn’t take you for thesettlingtype, son.” Brad aims his comment over my head. He hadn’t said anything to me, and I’m beginning to feel the exact shape of his disapproval. Barb mightthrow veiled insults, but Brad withholds his attention until you earn it.
“Settlingdown,you mean?” Brayden snaps back.
Barb’s gaze goes icy. “We were so surprised when he told us about the wedding. Of course, Brayden has always liked his little secrets.”
I can see why he keeps them.“We just couldn’t wait any longer.” Mostly because I didn’t want to be without health insurance for any longer than I needed to be. “I’m sure you understand.”
Barb smiles as if she doesn’t understand at all. Brad turns to me—I resist the urge to take a defensive step back. “So you think you have the skillset to keep my son in line?” he asks.
Absolutely not. I barely have the skillset for this conversation. My tongue feels stuck to the roof of my mouth. Some part of me misses Brayden’s hand around my waist. It didn’t mean anything, and yet, it felt better than its absence. So I think of all those women in the airport rideshare line, smiling big despite the heat. Maybe I’ll try that. After all, you can drown flies in enough honey. “Isn’t that one of the best parts of marriage?” I say, overly cheerful. “Reallygetting to know one another?”
“The good part, right.” Brad snorts like he’s not sure there’s agood partof marriage.
Next to him, Barb is examining the depths of her wine glass. For the briefest minute, I feel sorry for her—hitched to this angry, disapproving man.
Then she flicks her wrist. The diamonds on her tennis bracelets catch the light. Right. She’s not a captive. She made her bed, and it’s with him.
“It was so wonderful of you to come over.” I give an exaggerated yawn. “Traveling has just taken a lot out of me.” A polite dismissal—when what I really want to say isget thefuck out of our house. A place that, in the last few minutes, has transformed from being Brayden’s to somewhere I’d defend against these people.
My dismissal isn’t subtle enough. Barb scowls. Brad knocks back his drink. Brayden looks like he might pour himself another from the bar.
For a minute, I worry we might be dragged out to have an awful dinner with them. I smile, faking politeness, as my head gives a very real throb. “If you don’t mind letting us get settled in…” I add.
“Well, maybe not too settled,” Barb said.
I clench a grin. “What’s that mean?”
“You know the life of a sports wife. So much is temporary. People come and go.” She casts a glance at me, as if I’m a person who could go. “But of course, we have to celebrate when we can.”
Celebrate your ass back to the car.“Of course.”
“So we’ve been planning a little wedding soiree for you.” Though Barb is smiling at me in a way I don’t trust.
“How thoughtful of you,” I manage.
“Wonderful! I’ll be over tomorrow to plan. I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of inviting a few people to the party. I don’t know how they do things out inCalifornia”—she says it like she might meanBabylon—“but in the South we like to hold our family close. The ones who are here anyway.”
I can see why Blake left.I mentally count down the hundreds of days until I can do the same.Two years.In two years, I will never have to see any of these people again.So I smile, big, making sure to bare my teeth. “I can’t wait.”
After we showthem the door, Brayden waits all of five seconds before saying, “I’m going out.”
“I’m kinda tired from—” I exaggerate a yawn.
He raises an eyebrow. Oh. He wasn’t inviting me. He wastellingme. “My Uber’s here.” And he’s out the door before I have time to react.
Which leaves me in the house alone. The walls all feel like they’re looking at me. I kick off my heels, carry them with me down the hallway to the kitchen, headache worsening with each step. I was already getting nauseated. I need to eat something, quick, too fast to get a delivery service to bring it to the house.
Hopefully, Brayden has…some kind of food. Inside the fridge is a neat stack of pre-made meals in individual portions: gray chicken, beige quinoa. High protein and low flavor, no doubt. Clearly what Brayden eats when he’s not at the ballpark, portioned out for his week.
I search through the cabinets. Besides those meals, the only other food is giant tubs of protein powder and supplements that claim to build muscle mass. I open another cupboard, hoping to find at least a bag of chips or something. Instead, it’s crowded with whiskey bottles, some unopened, but most half-drunk, stacked four rows deep. None of which are what I want.
