“Nope,” I reply and tuck my knees under the hoodie I’m wearing. It’s Crew’s, since I came here in nothing but the dress I was wearing last night, and you could fit four of me in it.
“He told me to bring you.”
“He can fuck off.”
“Mallory,” Crew sighs. “I know he’s sorry. He told you he was sorry.”
"He texted me he was sorry. He knows where I am. He could drive his ass over here. It's less than ten minutes from his house," I remind him.
“He hasn’t had a chance to breathe let alone come here,” Crew defends his teammate like it’s his job. I guess, as co-captain with his brother, it is his job. “He did three print interviews this morning and one TV interview is scheduled for before the game with his dad.”
“Well then it’s best I stay out of his way.” I don’t move off the couch as he adjusts the cuffs on his shirt, twisting the cufflinks and giving me his best puppy dog eyes.
“I’m sure Dylan misses you.”
“Low blow.”
Crew’s mouth lifts a little in the corners. “I didn’t say I would fight fair.”
“Dylan has his grandparents,” I say, trying not to give in to that ache in my chest. “And if I was so important to his son, he wouldn’t have dumped me on you last night. Which made things worse, need I remind you.”
“No, you don’t need to remind me.” Crew’s rugged face grimaces.
Because this is the address the world still thinks Tate lives at, there were four photographers and one videographer outside the gates when Crew and I drove in. He gave me his jacket to cover myself from their lenses since the only way from the parking to the house is to walk by the gate.
I haven’t slept a wink. I laid awake in that guest room all night, my eyes wet with tears, my heart aching and my brain growing angrier with every hour that passed. Now, as Crew gets ready to leave for the arena for their afternoon game against the Thunder, I have no more tears. I’m just plain angry.
“Okay well if you insist on staying here, I’ll make sure the gate dude is aware. I don’t trust those cockroaches to not try and sneak in,” Crew tells me. “If they find out the mystery woman I came home with is also Tate’s girlfriend, then we’ll make the whole thing way worse.”
“I’m not his girlfriend,” I say. “I’m just the nanny.”
"No, you're not," Crew replies simply like there's no room for debate on this. "Anyway, lock the door behind me."
He heads to the entry and I follow behind and lock the door after he leaves. Then I move back to the couch, grab my phone, and look up the only interview Tate’s given that’s made it online already. It’s the Quake’s official team website. He talks about how he assumed custody of Dylan after the mother, who lived in England, died in an accident. How he wasn’t hiding the child, just trying to ease him into his new life without more unnecessary trauma.
He doesn't mention that he didn't know about Dylan. He doesn't mention that Diana was a bed buddy and not a girlfriend. He says he wasn't with the mother anymore when Dylan was born but he "very much takes responsibility for his son and is a proud dad." He says that "the nanny" is a close personal friend and he trusts Dylan with her "despite the leak coming from her family.”
It’s the fifteenth time I’ve read the article since it went live at two in the morning. And the same painful thought hits me hard every time I read it. It isn’t Dylan who is Tate’s dirty little secret. It’s me. And I think I’ve finally reached the point where I love me more than I love the idea of being Tate Garrison’s anything.
Tears well up in my eyes again, but I brush them away. I will not cry over a lesson that I refused to learn any other way but the hard way. My phone rings on the coffee table. It’s a video call from my mom’s cell. I have been avoiding calls from every single member of my family since the news broke last night but I know it’s not something I can do forever.
I reach for the phone and swipe the green button. My mom’s face appears on my screen. Her blue eyes are narrowed with concern and her mouth is set in a hard line. “Mallory! Thank you for finally answering.”
“If you start to yell at me or lecture me I will hang up,” I warn as I settle back into Crew’s massive white couch. It’s so big it goes from one corner of the living room to the other. His furniture is all too big for this place but he doesn’t seem to care. “But don’t worry you can do it in person soon enough. I think I’m going to come home. Soon.”
"I will buy you a ticket for the next plane out if you want baby," Mom says and she shoots me a small, supportive smile. "And I won't lecture you. I won't yell. Believe it or not, I feel closer to you now than I ever have."
“What? Why?”
She smiles again, this time it’s sheepish. “If anyone knows about losing yourself for a Garrison man, it’s your mother.”
“Mom, I have spent a little time with Mr. and Mrs. Garrison over the past twenty-four hours and, although I might be having some massive issues with Tate at the moment, I can tell you that Jessie and Jordan Garrison have been nothing but kind to me." I watch her face twist a little like she just inhaled an unpleasant smell, but she doesn't argue with me.
“I don’t like them,” she says flatly. “But I understand why other people do.”
Oh. Well, that’s new.
Mom's eyes dart to something past the phone and then land back on me through the screen. Judging by the painting behind her she's in her bedroom, sitting on her bed. She's likely looking at the door to make sure Dad is nowhere nearby. He likes the Garrisons even less than she does. "Look, when I fell for Jordan I was fourteen. I was also being raised by a functioning alcoholic and a narcissist. It was a toxic home life, to say the least."
