Chapter 13
Thirteen
August
Some things can’t be texted. Or they shouldn’t be.
Not when it’s your brother who also happens to be your best friend.
Discussion is needed, and truth? I don’t want a written record of this anywhere.
I can just see it being pulled out at some future family meetup and being shoved in my face to much hilarity—for my brat siblings.
A call is in order.
March answers quickly. “Bro. Nice game. The way you lock-armed that tackle?” He starts laughing. “Fucking classic. I’ll never admit it at family dinner, but that shit was badass.”
From my end of things, all I’d seen was a brick-house defensive tackle charging my way, his helmet an enormous red ball.
I could have run around in the pocket and hoped he didn’t flatten me before I’d thrown.
But he’d been too close. So I simply put my hand on his helmet, locked my arm, and danced back, while I took the opportunity to throw.
Watching it on our playback assessment, it had looked like I’d been Super Quarterback, able to hold tackles at bay with ease.
In truth, my ability to ward off a three-hundred-pound lineman with one arm, while appearing badass, was more about physics than anything else. But I appreciate the sentiment.
Huffing out a laugh, I turn on my truck and start the air. “What choice did I have? Not trying to get my bell rung.”
“The guys were impressed.”
March often watches my games with his teammates. When I was in college, I did the same for him and Jan as well. I still watch March play, though it’s often recorded these days.
“I have to tell you something,” I say.
“Oh, hell. I know that tone. It says, I’m guilty as all fuck and please won’t you help me out of it, oh awesome March?”
“Never have I ever said that.” I might have said something similar, but I’m not copping to the “awesome March” bit.
“Spit it out because we both know the truth.”
Sighing, I confess. “I asked Penelope to be my fake fiancée to improve my image for the team.”
Silence follows. Thick and judgy.
“Come again?”
“I’m not repeating myself.”
“Yeah . . . What the actual fuck were you thinking?”
“That she’d make a great fiancée.”
“She would. She’s very loyal and can keep a secret.”
“Exactly.” I knew he’d get it.
Another sigh comes through the line, this one irritated.
“Broseph, who the fuck are you trying to fool? More importantly, how are you going to keep your hands off her? Or is this a fake relationship with benefits, because somehow, I can’t see Pen going for that.”
“Now you’re just being insulting.”
“I’m speaking the truth. Sucks, doesn’t it?”
Scowling, I turn the air on high and glare out the windshield. “We’re getting along. This will work.”
“You’re going to get hurt.”
“Me?” An itch starts on my spine and crawls up my back. Of all my family, no one knows better than March how much I can get hurt. I’m fucking excellent at hiding pain.
“Yeah. Because you like her too much to fake this.”
There’s a downside to someone knowing you almost as much as you know yourself. I can lie to myself, but it’s a lot harder to lie to him.
I put the truck in Drive and head out. I hate when the little shit is right. Especially when he digs into my misery. His drawl turns downright lazy, which means he’s enjoying the hell out of himself.
“I mean, from the moment we hit puberty, anytime Pen came near you’d clam up tighter than a defensive line on fourth and goal.” He snickers. “Or flee the room like you had the rips.”
“Funny.” And sadly, true. Damn it. I couldn’t help myself; Pen would get that flat “oh it’s him” stare, and it was such a kick to the gut that I’d . . . shut down. Pride: You can try to reason with it, but it doesn’t always listen. “I was . . . working through some things.”
“Took your time about it, bro. Frankly, I’m amazed as fuck you’re even talking to her now.”
“Well, obviously I am—”
“Yeah. Jumped right on into the deep end, didn’t you?”
“Are you through?”
“I’m not going to change your mind, am I?”
“No.”
“Then why the fuck are you calling?” he asks.
“I have no fucking idea.” Maybe part of me wanted him to talk me out of this. But it was never really in the cards; the idea of walking away from Pen now has my back up. I’d rather get the shit knocked out of me by a defensive tackle.
Since the draft, I’ve been in a panic, messing up and acting out. When I’m with Pen, all the expectation and pressure just fade, and I feel like me again. Happy. Excited about life.
“I’m supposed to announce the engagement during my presser,” I say. “Pictures of Pen and me are out, and the question will be asked.”
Fed to the press by PR more like it. They have a way of controlling those things. Like sneaky information elves.
“You giving me a heads-up, is that it?”
“Yeah.”
I can almost see March meditatively nodding.
“What are you going to say to the family?”
“I don’t know yet. I’ve got time. None of them watch the pressers.
Mom and Dad are on that trip to Mexico.” My parents are enjoying their early retirement by traveling everywhere.
I want to do the same one day. Right now, I’m glad they’re away.
I know I have to tell them, but I’m choosing avoidance at the moment. “It’ll be fine.”
“If you say so.”
I don’t trust his tone. He had that same tone when we were six and five, and I announced it would be a great idea if we went trick-or-treating for a second night. I got halfway down the block before Mom came to hunt me down, with March in tow.
“Do not rat me out.”
“Are you kidding? I would rather be kicked in the balls than tell them.”
At this moment, I really don’t know why I called him.
“I’m hanging up.”
“Fine. Go.”
“Going.”
“Augie?”
“What?”
“Congratulations. You make a beautiful fake couple.”
He hangs up before I can tell him off.
Pen
It is a surreal thing to sit on my sad little sagging twin bed—the same bed I’ve had throughout college—on Sunday night and watch August John Luck tell the world that he’s engaged to Penelope Jane Morrow.
I mean, I see it just fine. Broad shoulders relaxed, firm chin raised, silver eyes clear, he sits front and center at his team’s press table surveying the room with the confidence of a king knowing they’re hanging on his every word. And tells them he’s marrying me. Me!
It’s the believing I have a hard time with. This has to be a weird episodic dream. The kind you wake up from and are immediately sorry you did, then think about it all day as the smaller details slowly fade away.
I once heard a story about a man who was in a coma for twenty years.
He spent it lucid dreaming about his awesome job, his loving wife, children, and all the wonderful things he did with them .
. . only to wake up one day and discover it wasn’t real.
He didn’t have any family; he never had that great job. He was all alone.
A chill dances over my shoulders at the thought. Please don’t let me be in a coma right now.
On my phone screen, August is fielding questions. Apparently, some people are shocked to learn he’s now engaged. You know, when he’d been dancing on tables and making out with multiple women, with varying degrees of enthusiasm, for the past few months.
I cringe.
August doesn’t. He merely shrugs and looks slightly sheepish as if he’d been a naughty boy caught in the act but they all know he’s not really like that, which is technically true, but still amazing to watch.
“Penelope is the love of my life,” he tells them—and holy hell, that makes my cheeks burn hotly even though I know it’s a lie. “I’ve known her since we were kids. To protect our relationship, we did our best to keep it out of the spotlight.”
Did we ever. One might even say it was nonexistent until now. I snort and curl up tighter in my pillow nest.
“Unfortunately, we hit a rough spot this summer and broke up. I didn’t take it well.
” His gaze goes straight to the camera, silver blue under strong dark brows.
And for a breathless second, it’s as if he’s speaking directly to me.
“It’s a difficult thing trying to live without the person who completes you. ”
I’m waiting for them to call him Jerry Maguire. But they don’t.
Instead, one person yells out, “Are you saying your play is directly affected by your personal life?”
Ah, caught. I fidget, worrying what he’ll do now.
August flashes the Luck “aw, come on now” smile I know very well. “I don’t recall my play being affected. From what I remember, we’ve won every game so far. Or do I have that wrong, Kirby?”
“Ah, no. That’s right.”
“We were addressing the fallout from certain dancing videos I’d rather forget.
Since y’all not gonna let me, till we talk it out, I’ll just say this.
I got my girl. I got the best team I could ask for.
And from here on in, we’re going to focus on football.
We gotta keep up our practice intensity, find out what needs to be adjusted and expanded on.
I’m pumped for this season and looking forward to what we can accomplish. ”
While August continues to give them cliché answers straight from the sports-press Q&A handbook, I let the phone fall to the bed and stare up at the ceiling. Holy wow, I’m engaged.
Though I’m alone in my room, I feel oddly exposed, as though I’ve been stripped bare and set down on Hollywood Boulevard.
I can almost feel the speculation going on right now.
People wondering who the hell I am and why her?
Did August Luck really love this girl so much that he fell apart without her?
I can’t see anyone believing it. Probably because I can’t believe it myself.
To calm down, I hold up my hand and look at the ring upon my finger. The sapphire is so intensely deep blue, it’s almost like the complete combustion of a gas. Yet it’s also cool and tranquil, the royal blue velvet of a twilight sky. I could look at it forever.
My phone buzzes.
Pickle: It’s done. Hold on to your butts.
Despite the unsettled state of my nerves, I instantly feel lighter, bubbly even. August Luck: the original champagne high. Settling in more comfortably, I tap out a reply.
Pen: Jurassic Park remains superior in the franchise
Pickle: IDK, I kind of liked Jurassic World too
Pen: Eh. I kept wanting that velociraptor to bite off Chris Pratt’s hand
Pickle: blood thirsty Pen. I like it.
( . . . )
Pickle: You got that I meant I told everyone about us?
About us. Like we were a thing. In some ways we are. Partners in crime.
Pen: Yes. I’m in avoidance mode. That was the first time I’d heard my name on national TV
Pickle: You watched it?
Pen: Of course. It’s not every day a guy says I’m his true love and that I kicked his heart in, causing him to do the chicken dance. I had to soak it in, you know?
Pickle: And there’s salty Pen. Can we not talk about the dance anymore. Like ever?
Pen: So that shot I got blown up and framed of you gyrating while wearing a purple fur is a no-go for over my bed?
The phone vibrates with a silent ring. Uh-oh. I’m in trouble. Fighting a grin, I answer. “Penelope Morrow, first-time fiancée, longtime man-killer, speaking.”
August’s warmly amused voice tickles my ear. “Keep teasing, see what happens.”
“Now I’m intrigued. What dance can I expect next? The Macarena, perhaps?”
“Ha ha. I’ll have you know I took ballroom dancing with all the Luck kids for two miserable summers. I can waltz you so good you’ll think you’re on air.”
“Stop. ‘You had me at hello.’” I giggle—a sexy giggle, damn it. “‘You had me at hello.’”
“It’s a good thing you’re marrying me, then,” he drawls.
Yep. Still makes my insides sway. I grip my phone with a hand that’s gone clammy.
“In all seriousness,” I say. “You did good.”
“Thank you.” There’s a beeping like he’s opened a car door, then the rumble of an engine turning over. “Got PR training in freshman year. And another round when I was drafted. It’s annoying but part of the job.”
“And your PR is okay with this? Truly?”
“It was their idea to say I was acting out over a broken heart.”
I’m still not sure how I feel about that. But I adopt a light tone. “Smart of them.”
A dubious grunt is his response.
“You okay with this?” he asks. “I know it hits different once it’s out there.”
“Pickle, I’m fine.”
“Penelope . . .” He trails off to heavy silence.
“Yes?”
There’s a pause before he speaks. “Thank you for this. Now that it’s real, I can’t help but think it’s fucking heroic of you.”
My heart skips and stumbles in my tight chest. “Hardly that.”
“You put yourself out there in a public light that can be cruel. For me. I didn’t expect—” He exhales audibly. “Whatever happens, I will always be there for you, Pen. You understand that, right?”
A lump swells within my throat, and I swallow past it. “I do. And me too. We’re partners now.”
When August answers, his voice is deeper. “Partners.”