Chapter 5 Brendan
FIVE
Brendan
As I pull into a parking spot, I’m already pondering how to undo the damage from my mother’s Facebook post. I barely check social media these days.
Once I started working for the Crushers, it seemed safer to stay offline.
Sports fans are like the weather: they love you when you’re winning and want to trade you when you’re not.
I don’t even make it inside the coffee shop before Scarlett bursts out the back door, still looking as panicked as she sounded on the phone.
She climbs into my SUV, clutching what appears to be half a dozen sticky notes and a large, white tote bag.
Before she even slams the door, she’s already sticking the notes to my dash.
“Okay, we need a plan before we get to my parents’ place, so I wrote everything down. ”
“Hello to you, too,” I say, looking over my shoulder at her. “How was your day, Rossi?”
She turns to me with an impatient frown. “Listen, we don’t have time for small talk. Because, spoiler alert: my day was not good, thanks to Isabella Marco’s oversharing. You need to put your mother on a Facebook timeout or something.”
“Like I could ever control my mother’s internet habits,” I mutter under my breath. “Asking my mom to stay off social media is like asking water to stop being wet. Besides, who’s really on Facebook anymore? Isn’t that where people go to argue with their high school classmates about politics?”
“Everyone’s on Facebook, Brendan.”
“I’m not. If you want to make news in this town, the best way is to get pulled over by the cops. Everybody will drive by and take pictures. Or worse, record it on their dash cams. People love gossiping about that.”
“You think getting pulled over is worse than your relative asking when the wedding is? People are going to start expecting us to register at Target and pick out matching pajamas.”
“My family would never register at Target,” I shoot back, which only prompts an eye roll from Scarlett.
“The point is,” she says with a sigh. “We need a strategy.”
“A strategy.” I pull my SUV onto Main Street, trying to ignore Scarlett’s soft, rose fragrance.
It’s hard to even think when she smells this good.
Why is it hockey players always smell like sweat and funky socks, but Scarlett smells amazing after working a twelve-hour shift?
If they made a candle that smelled like her, I would burn it down to the last drop.
“Earth to Brendan.” She snaps her fingers in front of my face, yanking me back to the present. “Were you going to tell me your strategy?”
“Right. Is it really that bad if your family finds out on Facebook? We were going to tell them tonight anyway.”
“Yes, it is. It totally changes our approach. We’ll need to act like a couple.”
“But I thought that’s what we already planned? Telling them we were going to the wedding together so…”
“Nooooo,” she interrupts, clamping her eyes shut and shaking her head.
Maybe it’s because I’m a man—and in stereotypical, male fashion, I like to get to the point. Why beat around the bush? My whole plan for tonight was simple: small talk, dinner, then our dating announcement. After that, my work was done. Mission accomplished.
Scarlett lifts a finger, like a teacher about to explain a very important lesson. “Tonight was supposed to be about dropping hints. I wanted to let my parents think something was happening without actually saying it. It’s a slow reveal.”
“Huh?” She’s speaking in some sort of relationship code. “Why wouldn’t we just tell them? That seems pretty straightforward.”
She cocks an eyebrow. “Says the guy who told his mom I was his wedding date before asking me.”
“Fair point. But for the record, Rossi, I’ve apologized for that. Multiple times.” I slide on my sunglasses as we head down Walnut Street. “So, what kind of hints?”
She plucks one of the sticky notes from the dashboard and holds it up. “That’s why I made a list called Ways to tell your parents you’re dating, without telling them you’re dating.”
“You made a list.” It’s not a question—it’s an observation about her fundamental approach to life, which clearly still involves mass quantities of sticky notes in all shades of the rainbow.
“I make a list for everything. Random thoughts. Brain dumps. YouTube channels I’ll probably never watch, recipes I’ll never make, and videos with dancing grandmas.
” She gestures to her purse, which appears to be a sticky-note storage facility.
“Organization is how I prevent my life from collapsing.”
“So basically everything that goes through your head gets documented?”
“Where else would it go? My memory is like a sieve, only with pretty colors and gel pens.” She points an accusing finger at me.
“And before you make fun of my organizational system, I think it’s crucial to establish clear parameters for this relationship.
We need boundaries, expectations, and a general game plan so we don’t accidentally do something that humiliates the other person. ”
The fact that she’s put so much thought into our dating relationship is impressive since it’s not even real. It makes me wonder how much effort she’d put into an actual relationship. And I already know the answer: her entire heart.
My heart sinks down to my shoes, knowing I’ll never know what that’s like to be in an actual relationship with her. The only part of Scarlett Rossi I’ll get is one wedding date. One fake wedding date, while someone else gets to have her for the rest of their lives.
“What kind of parameters are we talking about?” I grind out.
She clears her throat and plucks a sticky note from the dash. “Okay, step one: maintain close proximity at all times. Act like we’re attached at the hip. But only in public of course. Otherwise, it’s just weird.”
Good to know where I stand. Right back in high school, close enough to want her, but not close enough to have her.
I brush that thought away. “Okay, what else?”
“Step two: Give each other freakishly cute pet names.”
I scoff. “Pet names? Are you kidding me?” The thought of using pet names makes me shudder.
“Don’t most couples have pet names?” she asks innocently. “Like baby cakes, or sweetie pie, or my personal favorite—snuggle muffin?”
“Who in their right mind wants to be called a breakfast pastry?”
She shrugs. “Do you have a better idea?”
“How about just using my actual name? Or maybe Assistant Coach?”
“That’s not a nickname, that’s your title. Unless…” She gets an impish gleam in her eye. “I called you Ass Coach, for short?”
“Rossi, you wouldn’t dare.”
She lifts an eyebrow. “Try me, Marco.”
“At least come up with something a bunch of hockey players won’t turn into an embarrassing meme.”
“Fine,” she huffs, like she’s making a tremendous sacrifice. “But if I’m going to be your wedding date, the least you could do is make this arrangement entertaining for me.”
“Entertainment does not include being called something I can’t repeat in front of my family.”
Her smirk turns diabolical. “It does for me.”
Just then a phone starts buzzing from somewhere in the depths of her enormous bag. Without warning, she flips the entire thing upside down, dumping the contents across my pristine SUV floor.
“What are you doing?” Candy wrappers, loose change, and approximately forty-seven sticky notes scatter everywhere. My SUV, which was professionally detailed yesterday, now looks like a toddler threw a birthday party inside.
“What does it look like? I’m trying to find my phone.” A screen glows from underneath what appears to be a half-finished knitting project that’s either a sock or the state of Connecticut.
“It’s Mom.” She gives me a nervous glance. “Do you think this is about the Facebook post?”
“Only one way to find out.”
She bites her lip before swiping the screen.
“Hey, Mom!” she says, her voice wobbling a little.
“Yeah, we’re on our way. What’s up?” She gives me another worried glance.
“Okay, no problem. By the way, have you talked to Marion Henderson lately? Oh, she’s visiting her sister in Florida?
” A look of relief crosses her face. “No particular reason. I just wondered if she was home. Well, see you soon!”
She hits end, then tosses her phone back into her bag. “Good news. She’s completely oblivious about the Facebook situation.”
“Well, that takes the pressure off tonight.”
“Yes…and no.”
“What do you mean, no? I thought you were panicking about her finding out before we told her?”
“I was panicking. But now that I know she’s totally in the dark, we’re going to have to work extra hard tonight. Maybe we should practice a few times before we get there, so we’re warmed up.”
“Practice?” My throat suddenly feels tight.
“I can’t handle any more surprises tonight, Bren. And Eli’s showing up late, which gives us time to rehearse.”
I’ve always known that Scarlett hates surprises. She doesn’t like surprise birthday parties, or surprise gifts, or surprise announcements on—you guessed it—Facebook. So the least I can do is make her feel comfortable.
She taps the sticky note with her finger. “Ooo, this next one is good. I got it from a Reddit board.”
“You crowdsource your dating advice? That’s like asking random people at a gas station for relationship help.”
“Listen, they had some helpful suggestions. Like you putting your hand protectively on my back. Or leaning into you as I laugh at your jokes. Oh, wait. Coaches don’t make jokes, so that won’t work.”
I turn to her. “I’d like to think I have a little sense of humor left.”
“You do. Otherwise we couldn’t be friends.”
“We’re friends?” I ask, and this time I’m not joking. There’s been such a weird tension between us since that kiss. And I made it worse by avoiding her when I returned to Sully’s Beach. Since I’ve been back, we’re friendly to each other, but always in this polite, formal way. Not like real friends.
“Of course we are, Bren.”