If he’d had his way, I’d have been at every game. He’d have paid my travel expenses, too, but a gal has to learn how to make it on her own. I don’t accept handouts. I learned early on that the hand that feeds can also bite.
“Why aren’t there any pictures of you on his arm at an event?” Etta Jo asks.
“If you haven’t noticed, I’m not a Giselle lookalike.”
“Maybe Declan isn’t into women that look like me,” she says demurely.
“Have you looked in the mirror lately?” I ask.
“Have you?” she replies.
I grumble. “No, but if I go on social media, I’m sure to see a drowned rat.”
Etta Jo places her hand delicately on my arm. “My mama always says that someone else’s beauty doesn’t dim your own, and you’re beautiful, Maggie.”
“In a girl-next-door kind of way,” I mutter. This fact has been drilled into my mind since the end of my run playing Honey Holiday onFriends of the Family. I was cute, but as I matured, I didn’t remain star-quality material, despite my parents’ attempt to keep me in the spotlight.
“Thanks, ladies. I guess I’m just feeling low,” I say, not wanting to be a downer.
Etta Jo scooches closer to me. “Why don’t you tell us all about Declan Printz?”
“Dish the details. When was the last time you saw him? What did you do? And most importantly, what does he smell like?” Giselle smirks.
I toss a decorative pillow shaped like a taco at her.
“Come on. Spill.”
“The last time I saw him...it’s been a minute.” I tap my chin, thinking back. “When we both went to college—then he was recruited—things gradually tapered off. Our regular time together came to a logical end. We replaced early morning runs along the Charles River, fish and chips on Fridays, and our regular hangouts with texting.” My reflexive shrug drops with a little pebble of disappointment landing in my belly.
“You mean you haven’t seen him in how long?” Etta Jo asks.
“When I was at CU Denver, the Bruisers played the Colorado Crush. We got together for pizza. Couldn’t see the game because I had a final. Also, he’d periodically send me concert tickets or gift certificates for pizza—that was our thing.”
“Diggidy do, that’s so sweet.” Etta Jo whacks me on the arm.
“Did he surprise you and show up?” Giselle asks as if waiting to hear a romantic meet-cute.
I shake my head slowly. “It was always a solo show. Just me. He was busy building his career.” That little pebble sends out ripples when I remember how much I hoped he’d be there and now realize how disappointed I was when he didn’t appear.
“So, let’s get this straight. You hung out with this guy every day and you’re not married and don’t have a bunch of his babies?” Etta Jo asks.
My lips lower with a frown.
“Just saying, I’d marry him and have his babies.” Giselle nods.
Etta Jo looks me over. “Wait, hold up. Maggie. Did it never occur to you to marry him and have his babies?”
I roll my eyes. “We’re friends.”
Giselle shakes her head as if I passed over a treasure chest. “You’ve stressed that, repeatedly.”
“When Declan got drafted to the Bruisers, I knew he’d soon be famous. How could he not, with his natural charm and charisma? His personality spans city blocks. Fills arenas. It should probably have its own postal code.” But if he were going to be a household name, I had to create some distance to maintain our friendship before it got swept away.
“And that’s a problem because...?”
I have to divert the conversation before we get too personal. “To answer your other question, it’s been about three years since we saw each other in person. It was his twenty-first birthday party.” I stuff a chocolatey chip in my mouth and hope their imaginations do the rest.
Jaws dropped, they stare at me.
