Page 80 of Playing with the Heartbreaker

Janae rolls her eyes. “Girl. Just open it. And let yourself have nice things. And by ‘things’ I mean people. Certain people. You deserve to be happy.”

I spread the cinched bag open and grab the snow globe. Fake coins and tiny books tumble through emerald glitter. My heart squeezes at the memory of studying for economics at Rhoads’s house.

I don’t have the energy to tell Janae that, even though our season is done, the only moves I’m comfortable making right now are on the soccer field.

Because as much as I don’t want to admit it, she’s right. I have been using soccer as an excuse. The truth? I’m scared of getting hurt again.

Thirty-Nine

CHLOE

“Chloe, can you please help Daniella and Lawrence set up the trees?” My mom smooths her French twist, methodically tucking each wayward hair back into place. But the lines at the corner of her mouth remain.

Holiday parties always set her on edge, the promise of pending familial drama and the looming inevitability of spilled wine. It’s always a question of when it will happen, never if.

Of course, it’s always better when it’s someone else’s family gossiping over mashed potatoes and gravy, and getting paid might even make it worth it. People are willing to pay for someone else to carry the stress, and my mom has a gift for doing just that. That’s why she can charge double for holidays, and people practically throw money at her.

It’s the day after the state championship and my mom has me helping with the Littrels’ annual pre-Christmas dinner. I’m still on the hook for my car repairs, because unfortunately, high school students don’t get money for winning state. I practically begged to have the night off, but no amount of whining is getting me out of it.

I still haven’t been able to talk to Rhoads. In a post-game rush of insanity, I texted him to say thanks for coming to the game. And then, I got a whole lot of nothing in return. Janae’s pep talk got to me, and then Rhoads left me on read.

What if I misread everything that’s happened between us over the past few months? What if he truly is a nice guy, and he’s just after friendship? More than anything, I want to make the image of the Cinnamon Pop-Tart wearing his jacket disappear.

If I’m right about them, my heart might explode. So, I might as well distract myself from my life shambles and get paid at the same time.

“I’m exhausted, and this thing hasn’t even started yet,” Graham says, fanning himself with a thick white linen napkin trimmed in red. My mom recruited extra help, and despite my very specific plea for her to leave my ex out of it, here we are. Working together. Cool.

“Oh, just wait.” I brush fuzz off my gold satin dress. Even though I have to dress up, I prefer the Littrels’ events to the tea parties and Halloween shindigs. Someone always ends up breaking a precious family heirloom, staining the carpet, and burning the dessert. Twice, a distant cousin had to go to the hospital to get stitches. It’s like a teenager’s house party but with Merlot instead of cheap beer and women in cashmere sweater sets instead of cheerleading uniforms. “Stop flapping that. You’re getting fuzz all over me.”

“Sorry.” Graham smiles and tucks the napkin into the back pocket of his black slacks. “You look nice, by the way.”

“Thanks. So, why’d you volunteer for high-class heck?”

He shrugs, putting on a thick Southern drawl. “My kind don’t get to attend many functions of this sort. Thought I’d get my kicks and see how the other half lives.”

I roll my eyes and watch the caterers bring in gold-rimmed glassware, guessing how many of those I’ll be sweeping up by the end of the night. My money, if I had any to bet, would be on six.

“I could use the cash.” He sighs, starting to run his hand through his hair but stopping because of the thick layer of gel holding it in place. “Have you talked to Simpson? I saw him at the game last night.”

I make a point of not looking at Graham. Admitting I’m a coward is not on my mom’s meticulously scheduled agenda for the night. And apology aside, Graham is the last person I want to discuss this with. Especially now that I know he hurt Rhoads, too.

Instead of answering, I survey the dining room, which is as big as the whole bottom floor of my house. Normally, the Littrels use it for their weekly ballroom dancing group but having invited more people than attend most weddings to celebrate with them, we’re transforming it with long tables and cushioned chairs our team hauled up two flights of stairs from the basement. No wonder Graham is tired. He helped with that task.

“I think Daniella needs help with the tree in the kitchen. Can you handle things out here?” I leave without waiting for his answer. The only perk of this job, besides money, is being able to forget about my problems for a few hours, not spend time rehashing them.

* * *

An hour into the event, the first catastrophe happens. Someone’s Aunt Martha trips and drops her wine glass.

It shatters on the polished hardwood floor, sending a dark red stream toward the cream rug.

Number one.

Graham, whom I warned two minutes ago this was about to happen, mops up all the liquid before it can stain anything. I give my mom a thumbs up across the room, mentally checking off the box in my head, a sort of party disaster Bingo I like to play.

“Nice save,” I say. It’s still weird being civil with him, being in the same room without wanting to run away. Weird, sure. But better than before.

“How did you know that was going to happen?” His eyes open wide. “Are you psychic? Why didn’t you tell me you have a gift? You could get your own show, like Miss Betty!”