When we turn around, it isn’t only Brandon in the doorway. The pro league Commissioner Starkowsky and his daughterElyse, along with several other team officials, stand with their mouths agape.
The commish, shielding his daughter’s eyes, yells frantically—my second sister, April, an English professor, would refer to him as beingbellicose, which tells me this isn’t going to end well.
Two of us make apologies.
Elyse wiggles out of her father’s grasp. “Dad, I’ve been in and out of locker rooms for almost thirty years. I’ve seen?—”
Starky’s face turns purple. “Boys, you are excused,” he blusters.
It all happens in a split second, but we flee from the lounge, dispersing like kids caught ringing the neighbor’s doorbell and running.
In the chaos, I elbow someone in the nose, Declan, I think. But he’s laughing like this is the most fun he’s had in weeks.
Trouble is, the nerves zipping inside tell me it’s the last of the fun we’re going to have, at least for a while, which reminds me of the one regret I’ve never been able to shake.
The timePizzadid the running away. And no, I didn’t cheat on her with chicken wings.
3
PIPPA
Once again, I’m on the phone with Phoebe, my number one cheerleader and favorite—and only—sister. She offers encouragement as my parents’ driver drops me off at the Smythe’s home in Hampstead.
“Just no talking and walking or texting and walking. Pippa, do not text and walk. I repeat. Do not text and walk.”
“Don’t worry. I know better.” There are already numerous unfortunate stumbling, tripping, and falling accident reports on record.
Whereas my twin got the good luck gene and lives a charmed life, I got the stupid luck split in the DNA. That’s not to be confused with dumb luck, which is more of a matter of happenstance resulting in something positive. No, I experience misfortune and tough breaks, aka weird luck.
“Good luck, and maybe tonight you’ll find that special someone,” Phoebe singsongs.
Tucking away her good wishes and the comment about finding someone special, we get off the phone, prompting the driver to open the rear door for me. I get to my feet and then smooth my gown.
In the years since we were kids, I still love to dress up—though I don’t call anyonedarlingand I’m starting to think there’s no prince out there for me—figuratively speaking, of course.
Mum has tried to connect me with a viscount and a baron, but I want something real. Someone real.
Let me clarify. Once upon a time, I did find my prince, but he had no interest in making me his princess.
Nope. Early on, he designated me Pippag Thomzeg, aka the Hinnifin Hall ogre—that was the private high school we attended.
Apparently, after seeing me up close a few times, he decided that I was so hideous, he stopped looking my way, unless it was to embarrass me. I would’ve accepted gnome status because then at least we could’ve beengnomies. But alas, that was not meant to be. Instead, he was, and as far as I know, is still best friends with Freddie.
In case the folks in the back didn’t quite get that, the person who relegated me to ogre status and made sure I knew it, who also happens to be the subject ofThe Crush List, is best friends with my brother.
And the best man in Freddie’s wedding party.
Yes, it’s quite the pickle.
I could use a fairy godmother right about now because there’s no realm in existence wherein Chase will be my someone special.
But this begs the question, why, to this day, do I still consider my high school crush my primary prince whom I measure all other men against? Why is he the architectural design for the guy of my dreams? Let’s use GOMD for short—PP, for primary prince, doesn’t sound right.
My answer is simple. I don’t demand answers from my heart. Sure, I’d like to know why I can’t scrub away the crush like I’ll do later to my face full of makeup.
It’s not a matter of self-worth or being a glutton for punishment either. Trust me, I’ve explored all the possibilities. The theory I’ve always kept to myself is that there was an undercurrent between Chase and me. Something just beneath the surface that neither one of us was brave enough to name and claim. Either that, or I was caught in a rip tide and have been swimming against it ever since.
So here I am, arriving at the Smythe’s party and knowing that every guy I meet will be pitted against Chase. It’s not like I want to compare them to a guy I haven’t seen in years. (However, I do catch the occasional glimpse of him on sports television and social media. We don’t need to get into the weeds about the definition ofoccasionaleither.)
