“And she always does an incredible job. There’s a reason that woman has been part of the Finch-Quinn teams for so many years.”
Trina has been the lead publicist for our families since the nineties, when the parents were still young enough to be competing and Mabel and I were just someday dreams, not yet brought into the world. The woman was there when I took my first ride down a bunny hill, and while she’s kicked my ass up and down the side of every mountain I’ve ever ridden for all the dumb shit I’ve pulled over the years that she had to spin in the press, I can’t imagine why she’d have her hands full with Mabel.
Mabel is the golden child. The angel. America’s sweetheart. Mabel does nothing wrong, and she’s always at the center of the podium.
Mabel is practically perfect in every way, and on the rare occasion she missteps, no one ever finds out about it.
I’ve done my best to make sure of that.
The conversation moves on to the parents andtheir recent getaway to the Florida Keys, where they found themselves in a pickleball tournament against a group of septuagenarians (they won) followed by an intense round of beer pong against those same septuagenarians (they lost), and by the time our entrees hit the table, some of the tension seems to have evaporated from Mabel’s shoulders.
Which is a good thing, because I’ve spent the last fifteen minutes pretending to laugh at my dad’s terrible pickleball puns and itching to put my hands on those freckled shoulders and massage them until she melts.
“Are you kids hitting the Strip tonight? I heard the party at Omnia is going to be fire. That DJ from Jersey Shore is spinning,” Marcus says as he slices down the center of his salmon and puts half of it on his wife’s plate, trading it for a cut of her filet.
“Dad, don’t use the term ‘fire’. And I can’t speak for Rye Bread here, but I’m not going out tonight. I’ve got a mini bottle of Veuve Clicquot, a box of truffles, and the Sex And The City movie waiting for me in my room.”
“Truffles and a chick flick?” My dad scoffs. “Mabel, you’re twenty-five years old! It’s Saturday night and you’re in Las Vegas. Don’t you want to get into a bit of trouble?”
“Robert, stop it. If Mabel wants to have a night in,let her. She works hard, and she should relax how she wants. We’ve all got a big day on the golf course tomorrow, and we certainly shouldn’t be encouraging Ryder to get into any of his usual shenanigans, either. Remember the last time he was here in Las Vegas?” Mom eyes me over the rim of her glass of red. I know she’s thinking about my sort-of pal and USA teammate Sean’s bachelor party two years ago, attended by almost all of America’s winter sport male pros—those of us of age, of course—and which ended in a mass arrest for drunk and disorderly conduct. She never lets me hear the end of it, even though I was one of the few who didn’t end the night in handcuffs. I playfully roll my eyes.
“Don’t worry, Mom. There are no parties on my horizon tonight. I’m going to play some Hold ‘Em at The Bellagio, maybe have a few beers, win some money and go to bed. It’s bad enough you’ve roped me into clapping quietly on the sidelines of yet another charity golf event; I don’t need to show up to the course hungover, too.”
“Well, then it’s settled. Mabel, you’ll go with Ryder to the casino and help keep him out of trouble. The two of you can hit the strip together, post a photo on socials—Trina will love that—and then we’ll all meet up for a quick breakfast before tee time.” Melanie claps her hands together, and I brace myselffor the argument, for the inevitable Mabel meltdown where she implores her mother not to make her spend time with me and stomps her feet in protest.
God, I hope she pouts, too. Those red lips of hers are downright decadent when she pouts.
I practically fling myself sideways in my chair to face Mabel, not wanting to miss a second of the show. I see the anger forming. The smoke swirling in her delicious, chocolatey eyes. The steam beginning to billow from those tiny, flared nostrils.
“Yeah, Marshmallow, don’t you want to spend your last night of true freedom before Milan with me?” I coax, my voice dripping with saccharine.
C’mon Mabel, baby, play with me. Give me some fire.
“You know what, Ryder? Poker sounds great. I’d love to join you if you’ll have me.”
“What?” I sputter.
The grin on Mabel’s face as she spears a piece of fish onto her fork and slips it past her red lips is just warm enough that I can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic or not. There’s no twinkle in her eye, no glint of anything sinister or vengeful in those big, brown orbs. Her shoulder meets her ear in an over-exaggerated shrug, and she nods.
“What, what? You invited me to poker, didn’t you? I’d like to come. I think it would be nice for us to spend the evening together. The parents are right;we could both use a little fun before the Games. This is our last bit of free time before we have to lock in, after all.”
“Okay,” I say, drawing out the word. Something is off here. Maybe I’m just not used to Mabel being kind—or, at the very least, indifferent—towards me, but I don’t know how to act. “Maybe you’ll be my lucky charm tonight, Marshmallow.”
At the cloying nickname, Mabel winces. It’s a tiny moment, but I catch it anyway, and relief floods my chest.
Now I feel a little more settled.
6
WHAT'S THE WORST THAT COULD HAPPEN?
MABEL
Mabel
Dear Daniel Joseph Flowers,
I am writing to formally request that you vacate the rental property located at 123 MABEL QUINN LANE, as your lease agreement has expired due to violations of said lease agreement. I am providing you with this written notice to vacate the premises immediately. Please take the necessary steps to vacate the premises as soon as possible, and ensure that you leave the property in the same condition as when you first moved in, minus normal wear and tear.
