I wince. “Please don’t call him that.” The bubbles hiss around me like static, and I realize this is the first time all day I’ve stopped pretending I’m fine. My ribs hurt from rugby; my chest hurts from everything else. Still, I smile because that’s what I do—smile, sip, survive.
She grins. “You never snuck out, no underage drinking, no bunking off school. Nothing that would get your da cross.”
She has a point. It seems my father issues span back a little further than my professional rugby career. Maybe I stopped breaking rules because every time I did, he stopped looking at me like I mattered. And maybe I’ve spent every year sincetrying to earn that look back—from him, from coaches, from any man I’ve ever loved.
“And so what if you didn’t tick off everything on your to-do list in thirty days? Was that even a reasonable expectation when you made the damn list? Or did you subconsciously set yourself up to fail as usual?”
My jaw drops open, and I throw a cube of cheese at her, which she catches with ease and pops into her mouth. “No, Blá. There’s no space for logic in this bathroom, thank you very much.”
She grins at me. “So it’ll take a little longer for you to tick things off a list you made and set an arbitrary timeline to complete. Oh, nooooo. Whatever will we doooo?” She snorts. “Catch a grip, Rhi. You’ve freed yourself from a cheating bastard, bagged a hottie who looks at you like you invented potato bread, and you’re about to have your best rugby season yet. You’ve been waiting for someone to give you permission to live your life, babe. Maybe it’s…” She takes my hand. “And let me hold your hand while I say this.”
I roll my eyes.
“Maybe it’s time you just do it.”
“Do what?”
“Whatever the fuck you feel like.”
When she puts it like that, I’m not really sure why I’m crying. Except things between Robert and I aren’t real. The lie’s been growing roots under my skin, threading through every word I say about him. Sometimes I forget where the pretending stops and the wanting starts, and that’s the part that terrifies me.
Matthew’s head bobs in solid agreement. “Agree. But.” He gives me his best politician’s assessing stare. “You said you weren’t going to rebound into someone else. Are you sure this isn’t just some rebellion against your dad to piss himoff?”
“It’s not. He’s a good guy. I really like him.” The words come easily off my tongue because I’m not actually lying.
“He really does look at you like you hung the fucking moon, Rhi.” Matthew takes a big glug of his drink. He pins me with a look that suggests he might know we’re faking it but suspects my feelings are a little more real than not. “What are you wearing to the ball?”
I shrug. “I haven’t given it much thought.”
That’s a lie. It’s all I’ve fucking thought about, but the more I think about it, the less I know what to wear.
Matthew lights up like I told him his favorite queens are performing in the Anchor before clapping his hands. “Why didn’t you say so? This is going to be so much fun.”
Blá rolls her eyes. “You know some days you’re the walking epitome of gay best friend, right?”
He pretends to flick his non-existent long hair over his shoulder. “And what?” Not only does he not care, but he leans all the way into it most days.
“I have another question.”
Of course Blá has another question. I’m pretty sure Bláthnaid’s middle name is “question.”
She offers me a wicked grin, and I groan, knowing exactly where she’s about to take this inquisition.
“What’s Rob like in the sack?”
For a heartbeat, I picture him—his hands, his voice—and the ache that hits isn’t just lust. It’s something sharper. The kind of longing that always comes right before everything falls apart.
CHAPTER 32
Robert
“You look so uncomfortable in that, Rob.” My sister aims the spray bottle at my zebra plant before squeezing the trigger and misting the striped leaves. “Can’t you wear something else?”
I’m uncomfortable, but it’s not because of the clothes, it’s because of the woman I’m soon to be picking up. The journalist in me itches to turn every word she’s said into copy. The man in me knows she trusted me with it.
I’ve always told myself I write truth, not gossip—but what happens when the truth hurts the person I care about most? Oh. Yeah. No. We’re not going to analyze the fact I just slotted Rhiannon into that category with little thought. Shit. Emma’s still staring at me. “Make sure you don’t water the blossoms.”
She rolls her eyes at my snapped instruction. “I kept these fuckers alive while you were traveling. I know the score.”
