“And the girl you’re doing this for? Paisley?”
Something in my chest flexes at the mention of her name. “I’m doing this for me,” I remind Eden. “For my future. For my dreams of becoming a published author.” Am I though? The thought of Paisley suffering through the wedding all alone ate at me after I left her last night. If Halston hadn’t been the brilliant brain behind thisscheme, I might have volunteered to go with Paisley without recompense.
Eden waves away my reminder. “Right, right. But Paisley benefits, too.”
Not as much as me, in my opinion, but what do I know? Maybe showing up with a boyfriend weighs as much to Paisley as my career weighs to me.
“Sure, yes. Paisley benefits.”
“Are you positive there isn’t something there? Between you two? You say she dislikes you, but she wouldn’t be hauling you across the country and introducing you to her family if you were truly the bane of her existence.”
I’m already shaking my head before she finishes her sentence. “No way.”
“So, there’s no chance you’re going to get swept up in the sultry island vibes and happily ever afters and fall in love?”
“Zero percent likelihood.”
“Why do you say that with such certainty?”
“She was in my first creative writing class in college. We were assigned to anonymously critique a classmate’s story, and I got Paisley’s. I didn’t know it was hers, and I tore it to shreds.”
My sister gives me a look that hasyou are such adumbasswritten all over it.
“It was awful. She figured out it was me. I figured out it was hers. She cried. And she still hates me for it.”
Eden crosses her arms. “There’s more to the story.”
I frown. “How so?”
“Unless she’s the world’s best grudge holder, there’s something more. A reason it hurt her that deeply.”
“Or maybe it’s exactly what it sounds like.”
Eden rolls her eyes. “Don’t be such a dude, Klein.” She taps my head. “Use your noggin.”
Huh. Could it be? Does it go deeper than embarrassment? The thought toys with my imagination, pushing me to consider. When I develop characters I layer their emotions, starting with the surface and working deeper. Anger is never simply anger, but a reaction to the emotion underneath.
Maybe Paisley wasn’t only embarrassed.
Oh man.
Across the field, Oliver’s coach calls the water break. With the boys gathered around him, he talks and stretches his hamstrings at the same time.
“Coach Kissy Face is getting limber for his next photo shoot.”
Eden grins. “You mean Oliver’s future stepdad.”
I shake my head at her.
Eden drops the subject of Paisley, and we focus on the remainder of the game. Despite Oliver’s goal, his team loses by two.
He trudges off the field, dejected. When he gets to me, I muss the mop of brown hair on his head. “Next time,” I say, trying to make him feel better when I know very little will in this moment.
“Sure, Uncle Klein. Thanks for coming out to watch me. Sorry it was for nothing.”
He shifts his black and white soccer club backpack, and I take it off him, slinging it over my shoulder. “I didn’t come to watch you win, Oliver. I came to watch you play.”
Oliver looks up at me, gratitude shining in his eyes.
