Chapter 30
Thirty
Pen
“No, I think you should use that shot.” Monica’s glossy red nail points to the picture I’d taken of the guesthouse from an angle that shows the whole bottom floor bathed in golden November light. “Then these of the pool.”
When we first hung out, she told me to think smarter and use what I have. More easily said than done, but I finally have an idea.
We’re putting together an information packet in my new venture to pull in some extra cash. Last week, August filmed a commercial for a cellular service company and had offhandedly mentioned that they rented a huge house up the coast by the hour for the shot.
I did a little research and was shocked to see how much locations charged—and earned—for a couple hours’ rental.
Seeing as I have an idyllic location myself, I’m going to offer the same.
Not all over the house, but the grounds and guesthouse are up for rent on a limited schedule. Just enough to cover taxes.
August heard of my plan and offered up his place as well. “Might as well. I’m never there anymore.”
“But it’s your house,” I’d argued.
He’d merely shrugged. “You do the legwork, find the bookings and whatnot. And we’ll split the fee fifty-fifty.”
While I think I’m getting the better part of the deal, Monica had agreed with August that it was not only fair, but it was also a great idea. His house will earn more than enough to keep me in the black.
If I can get the word out there and book both places with good consistency.
“This is great,” Monica says, peering over my shoulder. “I’m about to throw a lot of bookings your way.”
I rest my head on her shoulder briefly. “You’re the best, you know?”
Her teeth flash behind crimson lips. “I do.”
When I pull up another picture, she gives me a happy kiss on the head. “This is good. But I still think you should keep up with the design ideas.”
I’d been giving her ideas for her beach house, and it’s been an interesting experience.
So many times in my life, I’ve felt an antsy kind of urge deep in my belly.
The need to create but no outlet for it.
I filled it with watching movies, reading books, sketching interiors every once in a while. It never helped.
Working with Monica felt different. All that twitchiness inside eased a little more.
“I’m looking into taking some design courses.”
“That’s great!” She wraps an arm around my shoulders and squeezes. “But you’re still helping me with my house, right?”
“Just don’t blame me if you don’t like it, okay?”
“Ha! I’ll just have us start all over again.”
“Pazzo.”
“Loca.”
Laughter erupts but then my phone reminder chimes.
“The game.” I set aside the laptop and grab the remote.
“You have it scheduled on your phone? I’m impressed.”
“I’ll forget otherwise. Is that bad? Should I have them memorized?”
With an eloquent snort, she waves a hand. “Girl, please. You’re watching, aren’t you? It’s not like you have to do that.”
“So you don’t have their schedule memorized?”
She fiddles with the fringe on her leather wrap skirt. “Eh.”
“Oh, my God, you do!”
“Well . . . yeah.” Her nose wrinkles in embarrassment. “This is my first long-term relationship. The others lasted a few months tops and then . . . poof! Done. I’m trying to be supportive.”
I’ve purposely tried to keep from reading about Monica or her life before we became friends. I don’t want to think of her as a huge movie star who walks the red carpet and wins Oscars. I’m afraid I’ll get weird or starstruck, and I don’t want that.
“I actually like football,” I tell her.
Her gaze darts to mine, and then she huffs a light laugh. “Nothing wrong with that. You make it sound like a shameful secret.”
“Not shameful or a secret, really. It’s just that August, and the rest of his family, assumed I never watched or was into it.”
“And that assumption pissed you off,” she says with a nod of understanding.
“Not pissed so much as I found myself not bothering to correct it.”
“They boxed you into a category. You were pissed.”
I blow out a soft, amused breath. “Maybe a little.”
“And he still doesn’t know?”
“Still haven’t told him.” I cross my legs in front of me on the deep couch. “But he knows I watch now.”
“All supportive-like.”
“Precisely.”
We watch for a while, and then I get up to get us some refreshments.
It’s only in the relative quiet of the kitchen that I think about how I’m keeping things from August. Important pieces of me.
Guarding them like a trembling little mouse for fear of .
. . what? Why can’t I tell him my secrets? Would it be so bad?
We’re so into each other right now. When we’re alone together, we’re the air the other breathes.
I know August’s heart: it is good and tender.
He would never hurt me. But when I imagine laying my soul utterly bare to him, something inside grows hard and thick, bottling everything up like a stopper.
I don’t know how to pull that plug. But if I want this to last, I have to.
My hands shake only a little as I pick up the cocktails I’ve made and head back to the den and the game.
Monica sits on the edge of the chaise. Lines run between her brows as she leans forward, gripping her knees. The game has taken a downturn, and our guys are falling behind. I hand Monica her drink. Then sit and watch for a while in silence.
At second down on the thirty, August executes a beautiful tough throw to Jelly, who catches it with the grace of a dancer. And is instantly tackled by a linebacker with the force of a truck. Jelly slams into the ground, head bouncing, legs flopping.
“Oh, shit, that was hard.” Monica bites her knuckle, eyes on the TV. She isn’t wrong. It’s difficult watching them get pummeled like this. Worse, when it’s your man.
“He got up and is walking okay.” I place a hand on her back. “That’s what August always says, anyway.”
Monica sips her drink and gives me a wry look. “Trent says the same. Still sucks watching.”
“It really does.”
“He’s off tonight.”
I know she means her man. Poor Jelly isn’t on his game. He’s fumbled twice, missed two passes. August looks pissed one second then rallies the next. Each time they regroup, he’s giving them pats on the shoulder, bending close and talking to them.
On-screen, a shiny-toothed commentator in a bulky-fitting checked suit ponders the current plight of Trent “Jelly” Gellis. It’s of his expert opinion that Jelly just isn’t in the game anymore. That he has his mind on “other things.”
“Aw, man.” Monica grimaces. “I felt that.”
Anger surges hot in my belly. “He’s full of shit.”
Even as I speak, the co-commentator chuckles meaningfully. “What are you trying to say, Brad?”
Brad holds up his hands. “I’m just sayin’ when A and B lead to C . . .”
“Give dickhead a gold star,” I mutter to the screen. “He can say the alphabet.”
Monica pushes a grim smile that ends with a wobble. “If I hear this, you better believe Trent will too.”
“And he’ll tell you the same thing I did. It’s. Bull. Shit.”
A wave of glossy dark hair falls over her cheek. “I know . . .”
“You don’t look convinced.” When Monica doesn’t answer, I lean in and take her hand. “Hey, it is not your fault.”
She inhales sharply and lifts her chin. Anger crackles in her eyes. “Why is it that whenever an athlete has a famous girlfriend, it’s always the girlfriend’s fault if his performance slips?”
“Blatant sexism?”
“Right? Because it’s never the guy’s fault. It’s his dastardly, vain girlfriend ruining his life, taking up all his time. And they never blame a famous boyfriend when a female athlete is in trouble. No, that’s still on her.”
“The siren situation,” I say with a nod.
“Sounds like the name of a band or old mystery.” She surges to her feet, assuming a fighting stance in front of the two chuckleheads still going on about Jelly’s troubles. “We’re damned if we do and damned if we don’t.”
From the screen comes the groan of good ol’ Brad. “Gellis for another fumble. I don’t know what it is, folks, but the guy can’t hold on to a ball today.”
“Trent Butterfingers.”
With a snarl, she flips the screen the bird. “Pendejo!”
It’s said with such verve, I fight a smile.
Because it isn’t funny. To most people, the men on the field are viewed through the lens of the game.
They might be heroes or enemies. They’ll be the best thing in the world when they make the play.
And the biggest dumbasses alive when they mess up.
I get it. There’s a gloss of unreality about it.
They aren’t quite human out there in those uniforms.
Unless you happen to be in love with one of them. It hurts to see them fail. I don’t know what I’d feel if I was publicly blamed for August’s bad playing. Maybe one day I will. But I imagine it would be a kick to the heart and soul.
“Do you want me to turn it off,” I ask Monica quietly.
She’s staring at the screen as if in a trance. The camera focuses on Jelly, hunched over on a bench, helmet in his hands. Sweat runs down the ruddy planes of his face. But it’s the stark pain in his eyes that really tells the story.
“I don’t know what’s going on with Gellis,” the other commentator says. “But he’s clearly going through some things right now.”
“Maybe it’s more a matter of what he’s doing off the field than on it.”
Monica’s chest lifts on a ragged breath.
“Hey.” I touch her arm and find it cold. “You okay?”
She snaps to attention and gives me an overbright smile. “Of course.” Her humorless laugh crackles between us. “It isn’t nearly the first time I’ve been picked apart by the public. Not even the most subtle way.”
“Why don’t we turn this off and go for a swim?”
“No, no.” She shakes out her hands, then visibly relaxes her frame. “I’d feel disloyal.”
I would too. But I’d do it for her.
“Well, there’s one thing we can solve.” I pick up the remote and hit Mute. “Take that, fuckos.”
“Fuckos?” Monica repeats with a delighted laugh.