I open a cabinet to retrieve two glasses. The sound catches his attention, and he glances at me over his shoulder. “Sit.”
His tone—playful but firm—sends a ripple of chills through me. “I was going to get us a drink.”
“And I said I was getting you a snack and juice. Sosit.”
“It’s really no problem. I?—”
“Dammit, Doc.” He slides a hand down the pantry door and turns sideways toward me. “You just performed a half-assed surgery on my arm. At least let me get you a drink.”
His eyes don’t leave me until I’m sitting at the table. He mumbles something under his breath, but I can’t quite make it out. Under the circumstances, that might be for the best. I know that he should probably be resting his arm and not using it, but I have a feeling he’s used to being in charge, so I let it slide. I mean, if I argue and his blood pressure rises, that could be … messy.
“I think Astrid is starving my man,” Brooks says, returning to the pantry. “They have no snacks. What kind of torture is that?”
“I’m pretty sure that Astrid keeps Gray’s diet pretty healthy. I know athletes get a little loose with their diet and exercise in the offseason, but Astrid runs a pretty tight ship.”
Brooks pulls a chocolate bar from the back of a shelf, knocking over a can of green beans in the process. “This is all the fun food I can find. One lousy chocolate bar.” He sighs. “Gray used to be fun, but now he’s a man of discipline.”
“Discipline never hurt anybody.”
His smirk is deep and downright delicious. “I used to think that. Turns out that using self-restraint can be really,reallypainful.”
A rush of adrenaline hits my veins, and my pulse skitters like crazy. This is too much for one day. But it’s not quite enough either.
“What about you?” he asks, taking two glasses from the cabinet and pouring us each a drink. “You seem like the disciplined type. And, by the way, no juice. Your options include tea—and that’s it.”
“Tea is great. And you’d be correct about me having discipline. It was drilled into me as a child. If my parentsweren’t so anti-tattoo, they probably would’ve had it inked on my forehead.”
“Are your parents both doctors, too?”
I laugh, taking a glass of tea and half of the chocolate bar from him. “No. My father is an investment banker, and my mother is the vice president of her very important social club. Not the president, mind you, because the president must deal with everyone’s problems and my mother wants none of that.” I take a sip as he sits across from me. “Mom likes the power and visibility, but doesn’t care much about the purpose, if that makes sense.”
“So I take it that you aren’t a social club girl.”
“No way.” I chuckle, then stop myself. “Well, I am a membertechnically. I just don’t participate in anything and kind of hope they’ll forget I’m supposed to be there so I can fade into oblivion.”
He takes a bite of the candy. “Why don’t you just quit?”
“You clearly don’t know my mother. There is no crying in baseball and no quitting the social club.”
He chuckles, his jaw flexing with every chew. It’s distracting. “But if you hate it …”
“It would break her heart,” I say as if that’s reason enough to continue participation in a club I don’t want to be in. “Her friends’ daughters are members, and it would devastate her ifheronly daughter weren’t a part of it, too. I couldn’t do that to her.”
He lifts a brow. “But if you hate it …” he says again, as if my point didn’t land—or he didn’t accept it as a valid excuse.
I take a long drink of tea and sit with his phrase.But if you hate it. Idohate it. I hate everything about the social club, charity events that aren’t done in the spirit of helping actual charities, and tennis games scheduled to show off the latesttennis couture. And even though I’d love to resign, I value my mother’s heart more.
My thoughts go to her call about Dad’s party, and my spirits sink. It’s going to be awful. It’ll be a contest over who can wear the most expensive jewelry. Seth will be there with his new wife, which gives me major anxiety, and Lewis Lemon scored an invitation. I must wonder—do my parents hate me?
It’s a terrible thought, and I know it’s untrue. They don’t know the truth about Lewis and me. If they did, I’m sure they’d feel much differently.
But that doesn’t change this party and how soul-crushing it’s going to be for me. Because no matter what I do or say, somehow, I won’t measure up. And my parents will be sure I know it. A subtle dig here, a certain tone there that no one else will pick up but me.
“It’s a simple thing,” I say, setting my glass down. “And it doesn’t take up that much of my time to just pay my dues every year and make it to a meeting once or twice.”
“Time is all you really have. Seems like a big thing to sacrifice to me.”
I shift in my seat, slightly annoyed. “Are you telling me that you don’t do anything you don’t want to do?”
