Chapter 17
HANNAH
“How am I going to explain this to her?” I ask Kinsley and Skylar Sunday afternoon.
The movie ended two hours ago but I’m holding them captive at the coffee shop next to the theater while I simultaneously drink too much caffeine, spiral about the Travis situation, and now avoid Wren’s calls and texts.
She’s texted twice in the past five minutes wanting to know what time I’m calling today.
I turn my phone face down on the table so I can’t see the texts popping up. I’m mostly confident I can keep my cool over text, but there’s zero chance that she won’t see through me and know I’m being weird if she sees my face.
“Which part in particular are you worried about?” Kinsley asks, voice so sweet it borders on smug. “The getting drunk and married in Vegas bit or deciding to stay married to avoid a PR nightmare?”
Oh god. This is going to be worse than I thought. How can I say those words, any of them, to Wren? I shake my empty iced coffee. “I think I need another.”
Caffeine confidence. That’s a thing, right?
Kinsley takes the cup from me. “One more and you’re going to vibrate out of here.”
“Wren isn’t na?ve about drinking and making bad decisions. She’ll understand.”
If it were anyone else, I’d agree. But I’ve been more like a mother to Wren than a sister or friend.
In high school while my friends were sneaking out to meet up with their boyfriends or go to parties, I was helping with homework and making sure Wren brushed her teeth.
There were some really dark years where she decided dental hygiene was optional.
I shudder at the memory. Not that she’d ever admit to it now.
And not that I had a boyfriend or was invited to that many parties, but that’s another story all together.
The point is, I didn’t rebel or get in trouble because I always had to set the example.
It’s hard to be huffy about your kid sister staying out late when you’re breaking curfew too.
Or convince her that binge-drinking, vaping, sexting, and cutting bangs are a bad idea when you’re doing them.
She still hasn’t figured out that instead of having the flu over Thanksgiving five years ago like I claimed, I was really so hungover I couldn’t get out of bed.
Mistakes were made. I still can’t smell pumpkin pie without feeling nauseous.
My phone vibrates on the table.
“Answer it,” Kinsley demands. “The sooner you tell her, the sooner you’ll stop torturing yourself.”
Skylar nods and smiles encouragingly.
“I feel sick.”
“Six cups of coffee will do that,” Kinsley says under her breath as she rises to her feet.
“Where are you going?” My heart is racing, and I can’t seem to stop bouncing my left leg.
“Home,” she says, leaving no room for arguing. “And you should go watch your hot new husband at his game.”
I decided against that after the first coffee. Pretending when it’s just the two of us is one thing, but being Mrs. Bennett in front of an entire arena? What would I say if someone asked me about him? That he likes huckleberry-flavored foods and his forearms led to my demise?
“But what do I tell Wren?” My voice is bordering on a whine and I give her my best puppy dog eyes but they’re both completely ineffective on my best friend.
“Woman up.” She winks, then reaches for Skylar.
They look cute today. Matching but in their own styles.
Skylar is wearing a baggy, white sweatshirt and Kinsley a tank top, but they’re both in jeans and tall boots.
The most picturesque, adorable couple. It makes me feel like even more of a fraud.
Especially after I let my curiosity get the best of me last night and I searched my and Travis’s names.
To be fair it was one o’clock in the morning—relevant only because it speaks to my state of mind.
I historically make terrible decisions after midnight. See: Get married in Vegas.
I’m not sure what I expected, but it was basically as Everly had said. A few sites had picked it up and ran a short piece, primarily centered around Travis. It doesn’t surprise me that he’s a fan favorite or well-liked. His stats are good, and his face is…better.
I was surprised that people seemed to buy our relationship with so little proof.
They couldn’t even find a picture of us together to run with the article.
Instead, they took one of him in a lavender-colored suit before a hockey game and an old team headshot of me from several years ago and mashed them together.
It felt a little like one of those life-goal boards I might have created in middle school of cut-out magazine photos, complete with a vision casting of me marrying my favorite celebrity.
The articles themselves didn’t say much.
My favorite was titled: “Everything you need to know about hockey superstar Travis Bennett and Olympic hopeful Hannah Walsh.” Olympic hopeful is decidedly better than struggling, medal-less gymnast. And the “facts” were mostly of Travis and his professional and dating history.
Hopeful or not, there isn’t much of note about me yet.
Once Kinsley and Skylar are gone, I toss my cup and head outside. The cool air steadies some of my anxiety and caffeine jitters. But as soon as my phone starts vibrating again, they’re back.
I stare at Wren’s name and the cute photo of her that fills the screen. She’s thirteen in her contact photo, taken when I dared ask her to pose for a photo. She’s giving me a death stare that feels a little too pointed right now.
Letting out a deep, calming breath, I mentally compose a text that is filled with excuses of my busy schedule and plans to call her later—all lies. That is until the call ends, and she immediately sends a shouty caps text.
Wren
WHY ARE YOU AVOIDING ME?
I guess the jig is up.
I call her once I’m in the Jeep, sans video because of safety and all that. Also, I’m chicken.
“Where have you been?” she asks instead of the standard greeting.
“I’m sorry.” I decide to say less. She’ll see through my excuses if I start babbling about training and my busy schedule. I’ve always tried my best to make sure she doesn’t feel like an inconvenience. I never thought that would backfire on me.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Mhmm. Are you mad about the payment for the extra course I added to my schedule? Did something bad happen at the gym? Did Kinsley finally talk you into doing ayahuasca?”
“Not exactly.”
“Really? I knew you’d cave eventually! What was it like? Did you hallucinate your past and future lives? Did you talk to coyotes? Tell me everything.”
“I did not do ayahuasca.”
“Oh.” She sounds almost disappointed.
“We went to Vegas last weekend.”
“Like a week ago, right? I saw the pictures on Kins’ Instagram. Are you still hungover? I don’t think that’s possible. Unless it’s because you’re so short the alcohol stays in your system longer.”
“You are only an inch taller than me.” How easily she gets me sidetracked. “Something happened when I was in Vegas.”
“Did you lose all your money gambling?”
“No.”
“Put it down some stripper’s pants?”
My fingers squeeze around the steering wheel. “I didn’t lose my money.”
Not that I have much to lose.
She’s quiet for a moment, like she’s considering what other possible horrors I could have found in the City of Sin. My nerves can’t handle it.
“I got married,” I blurt out, and then panic and add, “Sort of.”
How does one sort of get married anyway and is it too late to get the certificate changed?
Silence stretches out for so long that I think we got disconnected. Or that my brain has switched over to filtering only white noise.
“Wren?”
More quiet.
And then…laughter?
“Why are you laughing?”
She answers my question with a question. “Married? You? Who did you marry? Wait, was this some sort of joke with Kinsley? Does Skylar know? Are the three of you together?!”
“No.” It’s the easiest answer and all her questions are making my head spin. “His name is Travis, and you don’t know him.”
I barely know him. That thought seems better kept to myself.
“Wow. I did not see this coming. I mean the failed marriage and divorce, yes, but I anticipated a few years of pretending to tolerate some boring jerk and then saying ‘I told you so’ when he got arrested for tax evasion or cheated with your accountant.”
“You’ve really thought this out,” I say dryly.
“Oh yeah. I even planned to throw you one of those divorce parties where we’d burn your wedding dress and talk shit about him all night long.
” She sighs like my unplanned marriage has really ruined her life.
“I guess we could still do that, but I’ll have to rely on Kinsley for the dirt on him. What’s his last name? Is he on Insta?”
“You are not cyberstalking him.”
“Why not?”
“Because…we’re not getting divorced.” I don’t have the energy or the heart to explain the differences between divorce and annulment.
More silence.
“At least not right away.” Then, I spend the next few minutes explaining the situation, talking so fast that she can’t manage to interrupt me.
When I’m done, I suck in as much air as my lungs can hold and finally let the quiet linger for as long as it takes her to speak.
Which isn’t very long but feels like an eternity.
“Found him. Ooh. He’s cute. Nice job.”
“Wait, what do you mean you found him? I only gave you his first name.”
“What, like it’s hard?” She laughs. “Nice social pics. Only one shirtless photo and nothing with fishing or hunting. Why do guys think posting with dead animals is sexy?”
“I don’t know,” I say, still in shock that she’s tracked him down so quickly.
“Oh, he has a charity that supports after-school programs for kids. And he’s won a lot of awards for hockey things. Impressive. Almost as impressive as his dating history. Wow. She is—”
“Okay. Stop. You can’t know more about him than me. That would be weird.” Yes, that’s definitely the weird part of this scenario.