The memory of Suzie calling me into her office during her lunch hour three days ago rose up like a shadow in the back of my mind at the same time I decided to tell the stranger in 1B the entire bitter story.
* * *
“When’s thelast time you talked to Dwayne?” Suzie asked as soon as I dropped down into one of her guest chairs after closing the office door behind me.
I blinked. Suzie always watched the latest episode ofScuzz on TVfrom 1:00 to 1:30 pm every weekday. She even had it blocked out on her calendar, just in case one of her staff got it in their head to schedule a meeting she’d have to attend at that time. I’d assumed she’d called me in to give me some breathless piece of gossip. But no...
“Not for a couple of weeks,” I answered. “He’s been super busy trying to secure investors for this nightclub idea of his during the off-season….”
I trailed off when the implications of Suzie’s question—and the unusually grave look on her face—caught up with me. “Wait, why are you asking? Did something happen to Dwayne? Is he in trouble?”
“Look at you, worried about Dwayne first things first.” Suzie shook her head. “You are too damn nice. I mean, just the best. And, girl, I do not want to be the one to show you this. But you’re my best friend, so…”
She turned around her computer monitor to display the video of the Scuzz.com newsroom, where their television show took place. Then she pushed play on the keyboard.
“So, Suns kicker Dwayne Thornhill narrowly avoided getting traded this season, but it looks like he decided to make a trade of his own….” One of the young reporters on screen was gossiping with Scuzz.com’s much older editor in chief. “According to my sources, he’d been dating the same girl for, like, four years. Her name’s like Katie or Kim or something…?”
“She famous?” The older editor cut off the young reporter before he could look up my name.
“Nope.”
“Then her name doesn’t matter.” The editor in chief made a dismissive hand motion over the bill of his trucker hat. “What’s going on with Thornhill? Get to it.”
“Well, here’s Thornhill last night at the Celebrity Weekly after-party for the Stadium Awards.
The headlineHOT NEW COUPLE?appeared over footage of Dwayne walking out of the party arm in arm with a heavily made-up woman. I immediately recognized her as one of the stars ofSunset Sisters—that reality show about four Hollywood socialite sibs who almost exclusively dated pro athletes.
“Hey, that’s not Kim Nobody—that’s Karly Kazian!” the editor in chief exclaimed over the footage.
My heart sank a little, but then I shook my head and reasoned, “This is probably just a publicity stunt.”
“Oh, honey.” Suzie’s eyes filled with pity.
Still, I rushed to defend Dwayne. “No, no, seriously. He’s looking for investors right now. He was probably pitching his club to her. I mean, they’re just walking out of a party. It’s not like they’re actually?—”
All of my justifications were interrupted by more footage—this time of Dwayne tonguing down Karly Kazian in the front seat of his sports car. The sports car I’d help him pay the bill on the previous month because he’d “miscalculated” some expenses.
And that’s how I found out my trip to Paris would not include an engagement ring.
Or Dwayne.
* * *
“I was such an idiot,”I told Mick as I remembered all the pitying glances I’d gotten from my fellow Suns coworkers during the days leading up to my now solo vacation. “And I feel like even more an idiot for crying—in first class, of all places!”
“Yeah, you should feel like a right idiot for cryin’.” To my surprise, Mick regarded me with a serious, completely unsympathetic look. “That wanker’s not worth any of your tears. You know that. Don’t you?”
Yes, I did know that. I mean, I even told myself the same thing earlier, before my crying jag. But somehow, when Mick said it, I understood the truth of how stupid it was to cry over Dwayne, to my core.
“You’re right. You’re totally right.” I swallowed down the last of my champagne. “And even more importantly, I’ve learned my lesson. No more liars—and no more football players!”
I looked to Mick for another rough affirmation of what I already knew. But instead of agreeing with me again, he shifted in his seat, and a long, uncomfortable silence followed my declaration.
Aw, geez. My cheeks heated with the uncomfortable realization that I’d been going on and on about my ex for way too long. Like, I’d told him the whole drawn-out story in excruciating detail. What was I thinking? This probably wasn’t his idea of good—or even decent—conversation.
I reset, and this time, I was the one who turned to fully face him. “Enough about me, though. How did you come to be in first class, listening to me whine about my ex-boyfriend?”
He gave me a considering look before answering with a proud smirk. “Guess I won a trip, too. All expenses paid, including a room at the Tourmaline Paris. But I only got four days and three nights, so I won’t be in Paris as long as you.”
