She spins and looks me up and down. “This won’t work,” she says as she moves toward my bedroom.
I look down at my outfit. I’m in leggings and an oversized hoodie, but it’s Sunday and I’m going nowhere. This is the perfect outfit for that kind of day. “What won’t work?”
I hear my dresser drawer slide open and hurry after her. “Anna,” I say from the doorway. She’s already elbow-deep inmy clothes. “Stop for two seconds and tell me what’s going on.”
She turns and tosses a sweater at me, then props her hands on her hips. “Carter Williamson is at the house.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Okay. Why does that mean I have to put on a sweater?”
She grabs a pair of jeans off the chair in the corner and shakes them at me. “Can you just hurry? He’s waiting to talk to you, and you really can’t go looking like this.” She waves a hand in my general direction.
“What’s wrong with how I look?”
“There’s a weird stain on your hoodie and a hole in your leggings.”
“Okay, fair.” I pull the hoodie over my head, then slip on the sweater Anna picked out. “But why is he here to talk to me?” I say, voice muffled by the sweater which I can’t seem to get over my head. When I finally pop through the right opening, hair flying from the static, Anna is staring at me, hands propped on her hips. There’s a smile playing around her mouth, and her eyes are gleaming.
“You might want to sit down,” she says, and my heart starts to race.
“Why? Why do I need to sit down?”
“Sarah, he said he’ll do it,” she says. “He’s willing to marry you.”
I lean back against my dresser, knees suddenly weak. “He did not.”
“He totally did. He wanted to come back and tell you himself, but I convinced him you’d want a heads-up. Mostly because I fully expected you to look like this. But also—” She takes a step closer, holding my gaze. “You can still say no, Sarah. You know how much I want you to be here, but thiswas Miles’s idea. We won’t blame you if it’s too much. I thought you deserved a minute to consider what you want for real before you face him.”
I walk over to my bed and sink onto the corner of the mattress.
I have experienced a plethora of emotions since my conversation with Miles. At first, all I felt was anger. Then my anger turned into mortification. But the longer I sit with what happened, the more I recognize what’s at the core of my brother’s motivation.
We’re all remaining hopeful that Anna won’t have postpartum depression like she did before, but if she does, it will be doubly more difficult without her momandme. I can’t fault Miles for wanting me close, both for my sake and for hers.
But I never considered, even for a moment, that Miles’s plan was actually a viable one.
“What made him change his mind?” I ask. My mind darts back to the exchange we had at the food drive yesterday. He looked good—so good—wearing a Jaguars baseball cap low on his forehead and a team-branded navy and white half-zip pullover.
I had to apologize—the thought of him believing I might have had something to do with Miles’s proposition was keeping me up at night—but now I’m wondering if our conversation had something to do with him being here today.
“Who knows?” Anna says. She hands me my jeans, and I shimmy out of my leggings, then pull them on. “Does it matter?”
“Everything matters, Anna. We’re talking about marriage here. Why would he agree to something like this? Did he say?”
“Not explicitly. But I don’t think you have to worry about him having ulterior motives. Carter’s a really nice guy. Like, nice enough that it wouldn’t take much to convince me he’s willing to do itjustto be nice.”
“But he wasn’t willing at first,” I say. “That’s the point I’m making. He changed his mind.”
“Maybe he really liked his apology cupcake?” she says. “Or he appreciated how hot you looked in those jeans because your butt looked totally amazing.”
I look down at my jeans—the same ones I wore yesterday. “Really?” But then I give my head a quick shake. My butt, regardless of the jeans, is not the point of this conversation.
“That would actually bebadnews,” I say. “I don’t want him noticing anything about me.” Even as I say the words, a tiny pulse of doubt makes me question them, but I quickly squelch it. Liking Carter isn’t an option. It can’t be.
“Because he’s a hockey player,” Anna says flatly, and I shrug.
“It wouldn’t be fair to him,” I say. “You’re a WAG. You know what it’s like. Carter wouldn’t want a wife who can’t do anything to support him. Who never watches him play. At least, not arealwife.”
She sighs. “Okay. Forget I suggested it. Let’s just go with him being nice.”
