G…what?
I take another gulp of iced coffee to wash away my anxiety. What if I agreed to this whole thing—fake marriage, media charade, lying to everyone I know—and I fail anyway? What if I should have stayed in San Diego, married one of my father’s rich friends’ rich sons, and played first wife for a while?
Isn’t that what you’re doing with Brayden?
Meanwhile, Dr. Ghorbani is still talking about the graph. The axes blur, the dots forming a vague cloud. An aura? That’d be the only thing that’d make today worse.
It takes me a moment to realize it’s not an oncoming migraine: my eyes are just filling with tears. I unfold my Starbucks napkin and wipe them away, then reread the syllabus. We had three papers to read for today, four more assigned for next week. And that’s just this class.
You seem like you’d be good at whatever you try to doreplays in my head. Clearly not. But I can probably try. I slidethe paper back to Forrest. “Thanks. Looks like I’ll have some cramming to do.”
“Some of us have a study group.” Forrest points to a woman sitting near him with dark brown hair, streaks of which have been dyed pink. “Katia and I meet Wednesday nights in the library.”
“Oh that’s—” I cut myself off before I can saygreat. I promised Brayden I’d go to his games as much as possible, including the three this week.Sorry, I can’t come because I need to watch my fake husband play professional baseball. “I’ll try to swing by.”
But I know I won’t be able to. That’s the thing I guess no one tells you about doing stuff for yourself. Sometimes you have to do it alone.
Chapter Sixteen
Brayden
When I get homefrom the ballpark after the game, Savannah’s up in her bedroom, door open, papers spread around her on the desk, a highlighter in hand as she bends over whatever she’s reading.
Since that first night, I’ve tried not to go in her room, even if I can still catch whiffs of her rose-scented perfume. She doesn’t have much up on the walls, but her clothes are hanging in the closet, her shoes stacked in neat boxes on the floor. There’s a cat-shaped throw pillow on the bed and a picture of a cat next to all her other papers on her desk.Does she like cats?I realize I don’t know.
For a moment, I stand in the doorway, watching her as she studies, her hair up in a loose knot. A few threads have fallen out of her bun and play at the base of her neck. She hasn’t noticed I’m here. I hold my breath, watch the soft angle of her wrist as she highlights something, then switches to a pen to jot down a note. Her teeth hook on her lower lip as she concentrates. She has a smudge of highlighter on her cheek. If I really focus, I canjust make out the dot of her nipple through the fabric of her shirt and bra.
She must finally catch me, because she looks up. “Brayden, hey.” Her voice is throaty like she’s been at this for a while.
“I take it you didn’t crash the car,” I say.
She frowns like she doesn’t remember our conversation from earlier. “The car. Right. Thank you for lending that to me.”
“It’s yours. I got my truck.” A drive that took thirty minutes in an Uber followed by an hour with Brad dragging me into the batting cage in our garage and telling me everything that’s wrong with my swing. So a normal trip home, more or less. I scan the papers scattered around Savannah. “Do you have a test or something?”
She laughs. “No, just, have you ever started something and realized you’re already struggling to keep up?”
Brad used to toss me out of bed at four a.m. to run around the neighborhood while he followed me in a golf cart, yelling. That was something I learned to do: put one foot in front of the other, knowing that if I slowed down, he’d be right behind me. “Yeah, sometimes.”
“So, I kinda put in some serious work time.” Her eyes drift to her papers like she’s eager to get back to it.
I know a dismissal when I hear one. I go to the kitchen, pull down a glass. Into it, I put a few fingers of whiskey. Something that will make today a little easier: Brad’s criticisms, Adler’s smug look in the dugout after he’d gotten on base for the third time and I struck out twice. Savannah’s gaze drifting to her papers and what she really wanted to do—which wasn’t talking to me.
Then I remember how she sounded: throaty. Maybe thirsty? Growing up, Blake used to bring two water bottles to practice because I’d always forget mine. I pour a second glass—water,not whiskey—then go upstairs and drop it on her desk. She’s so caught up in whatever she’s doing that she barely looks up.
“Night,” I say and retreat into my room with my whiskey. It’s not drinking alone if Sav’s in the house too, thirty feet and a million miles from where I can touch her.
Chapter Seventeen
Savannah
We’re driving homefrom the ballpark—I took a rideshare to the game so I could spend my time in the car reading—when Brayden declares that we need to make a stop.
“What’s even open now—” I begin, then cut myself off. Liquor stores here are open for another hour.We have whiskey at home. We’re married but we’re not really married and if he wants to drink…he just can, I guess.
So I don’t say anything as Brayden pulls into a shopping center and parks three spaces away from every other car. He digs out his wallet from his front pocket. “Here.” He hoists a credit card between two fingers. “Get whatever.”
“Whatever…?” I ask.
