Chapter 7
JO
In the twelve hours since Nico left my apartment, he’s texted me no fewer than ten times.
His messages range from curious questions like I noticed you have a bag of knitting stuff.
What do you make? To weirdly flirtatious things like What do you sleep in?
Bet it’s a hot little black lacy number.
To sweet greetings like the one this morning.
Hey, Jo! I’m about to leave for practice. Hope the noggin’s feeling better.
He is one of the nicest guys I’ve ever met. Also the most confusing. I understand that he’s a natural flirt, but with me? He doesn’t need to put on a show when it’s only the two of us, yet he does. He flirts and smiles and touches me as if he enjoys it.
As if he enjoys being with me.
I can’t wrap my head around it. My entire life, I’ve been the outcast, and now I’ve suddenly been adopted, like a sad-looking puppy in an ASPCA commercial.
Nico plucked me up out of a dire situation, and just when I thought he would leave it alone—leave me alone—he promised he wouldn’t.
He intends to follow through on this ridiculous fake engagement.
Maybe it will help his standing with the team, but I’m not sure what it will do for me, because eventually, this fake engagement will have to end. I’m not going to fake-marry the guy. At some point, we will have to “break up,” and I’ll be in the exact same position I was in before—an outcast.
I finish another line of stitches before setting down my needles and yarn to move around and stretch my back.
My apartment is tiny. There is no way around it, but it’s also mine.
I work hard for this 350-square-foot studio, and while I can barely do a few jumping jacks in the space, it’s my home.
The place where I remove my makeup and all the emotional shields I put on for myself during the day.
Since relocating here, I’ve made friends. I enjoy my job. I’ve even gone on a handful of dates—no matter that they’ve never turned out well, but I have a life. One that suits me more than West Virginia ever did.
I spend a few minutes watching the traffic outside the window, a couple of teenagers skipping school, even though I’m sure the year’s just begun, and I smile at the elderly couple shuffling down the sidewalk, a small cart of bags in front of them.
I love my corner of the world.
Too bad it’s intruded on by my mother.
Her name appears on my cell phone, buzzing next to the sink, and simply knowing she’s on the other end of that call makes my anxiety skyrocket. But I’ve never been good at drawing boundaries with my family, so I answer it.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Bucky! There you are! You never texted me last night.” Her voice is all sugarcoated concern, making my chest tighten a fraction more.
“I was—”
“With Nico. I know. You don’t have to explain.”
Except, with her tone, it seems like that’s what she wants—an explanation.
Yesterday morning, when my family reappeared at the hospital, I came up with a story about how it was sort of a whirlwind romance between the two of us.
They don’t know anything about hockey, so I didn’t have to explain away how he’s only been living in Philadelphia since this past March, traded right before the deadline.
Six months—that’s all the time we’ve had in this fictional relationship.
But Nico did say he loves the fated mates trope. Maybe we imprinted on each other or something. That would be the only reason for him to want to be with me.
“So, how are you?” Mom asks. “Where’s your man?”
“At practice, and I’m fine.”
“No headaches?”
“Nope.” There’s been a dull ache in my head since leaving the hospital, but I lie to keep her happy.
“I’m glad, but I do wish you weren’t up there by yourself.”
“I’m not by myself.”
“Right. You have Nico.” She makes a sound that’s a mix of joy and wonder.
None of them can believe it.
“Although after meeting him, now I understand why you aren’t calling me more often. He is quite the guy.”
“He is.”
She rambles on, listing all the things she loves about him: he’s gorgeous, a gentleman, takes his hat off inside, sweet to Mamaw, and the icing on the cake, “He must be rich if he’s a professional athlete!”
I ignore that because while I don’t know what his salary is, it’s certainly 1,000% more than mine, and that’s without what I can assume he inherited from his parents. But that’s none of my or my mother’s business.
“When should we start planning the wedding?” Mom asks. “You’re going to have it here, right? With Reverend Parsons?”
“We haven’t even talked about it.”
“Well, what is there to talk about? You have to get married in the church.”
My mother volunteers quite often at the Methodist church I grew up in, and she helps run the women’s prayer group.
Lizzie used to run the youth group with Waylon.
I should’ve known back then what was going on between the two of them.
Always together and planning outings to spread the Word of the Lord.
Yeah. They were speaking in tongues, all right.
I blink away the image of my sister in Waylon’s lap, his hands in her hair, his face buried in her neck, the moans she made.
Instead, I focus on the present, on throwing my mother off the trail. “Nico has his whole season to get through, and we’ll talk about it after.”
“But we can start planning. Meeting his family. Oh my god, can you just imagine spending time with Paulina Luciano?’
“Yeah… Don’t you have any appointments today?” I ask, trying to scoot her off the phone, but she informs me her schedule is clear this morning, so I go for the tried and true method.
“Well, I’ve got to go. Sean’s calling.”
“Oh, all right. You make sure to talk to me tomorrow. Let me know how you’re doing, and say hi to Nico for me.”
“Mm-hmm. Sure. Okay. Bye.”
“Bye, Buck!”
I won’t be talking to her tomorrow, not if I can help it, and I toss my phone on my bed. While Sean is a demanding boss in terms of the quality of work, he has never been a bad boss, but I let my mother think he is, using him as an excuse.
Though I guess I should’ve learned my lesson. My little lies can lead to much bigger ones.
If only I had the guts to tell my mom the truth, that she needs to give me space, that I’m happier without my family breathing down my neck—or more accurately, I’m happier when I don’t need to be confronted with their bulldozing and bullying.
I’m able to return to my knitting for a few minutes when my cell phone rings again, and I know who it is. The other half of the double-team.
“Hi, Lizzie,” I answer, tossing my needles and yarn aside again.
“Hey. How’s the head?”
“Getting better. Why are you calling me?”
“Just wanted to talk. Can’t a girl call her sister after she was in the hospital?” She sounds almost cheery, and I brace myself for whatever it is she just wanted to talk about.
“I guess,” I mumble, and Lizzie prattles on about random things for a few minutes until she finally gets to the issue.
“So what’s the real deal with you and Nico?”
“What do you mean?”
“Give me the details. He’s a pro hockey player. I mean…”
She means there is no way he could ever actually love me, marry me.
“What do you want me to say here, Elizabeth Ann?”
My sister hates her full name, and she makes a sound of disgust on the other end. “You don’t need to be like that. I’m curious, is all. What’s it like being with him?”
I thumb the gold ring on my finger. The one that he gave me in the hospital to save me from embarrassing myself with my family. Only so I can embarrass myself now, on the phone with my sister. “Why do you want to know so bad?”
“Why won’t you answer the question? It’s like you can’t or something. Why?”
“Because I don’t want to. We like to keep things private.”
She huffs on the other end of the phone call.
“He seems fine with not having privacy. He’s all over the internet.
I’m surprised Mom hasn’t found him yet.” There is a threat there in the undercurrent of Lizzie’s words.
Especially when she says, “Waylon did some research on him. Are you sure you can handle him? He’s a fuckboy. ”
“That was before.”
“Was it?”
“Clearly, you wouldn’t believe me anyway, so it doesn’t matter. I love Nico, and he loves me,” I say, shocking myself at how easily the lie slips off my tongue. Maybe I need to see a psychologist. I think I might be a sociopath.
“But why do you love him? He’s not the type of guy you usually like.”
She’s right. The type of guy I like is the one she’s currently with.
Waylon is soft-spoken and sturdy, and I don’t think I’ll ever experience that kind of heartbreak again in my life—seeing them together.
Even with all the bullying and ostracizing, something cracked in me that day, and I’m not sure it can ever be put back together.
Between Waylon and me, but also between my sister and me.
It was the straw that broke the camel’s back.
I gather up the little dignity I have left and scrape together a few words I hope can get her to back off.
“Nico’s not afraid of anything, and he makes me feel brave.
That’s why I love him.” And just because, I add, “Aside from the way he kisses and touches me. The boy earned his reputation for a reason, and I reap all the benefits.”
Lizzie coughs out a sound of amazement, and I can’t believe those words came out of my mouth either. I close my eyes, waiting to hear her response, and it takes a few moments for it to finally come. “Well. Lucky you, then. Apparently you found more than good makeup in Philadelphia, didn’t you?”
I force myself to relax, even allow myself to smile. Because…is that jealousy in her voice?
Envy from the beautiful and popular Elizabeth Ann Atkins, former Miss Teen West Virginia?
I tuck this feeling away, holding it for the next time she or someone else inevitably pulls me back down, and I tell my sister, “Yeah. I found my future husband, and I need to get ready to go see him, so…”
It’s clearly taken the wind out of her sails, and I must be missing some part of my soul to delight in taking her down a few pegs. After all these years, I’m glad she finally feels it.
Disappointment.
Jealousy.
Inferiority.
Because that’s all I’ve ever felt, so it’s about time she understood.
“Bye, Bucky Beaver,” she spits before ending the call, and I’m still flying high enough not to let the old nickname bother me.
In fact, it makes me pull out my makeup bag. I haven’t worn any since the day of the accident, and even though I don’t have to go anywhere, it always makes me feel better.
Growing up, I was never confident. I hid behind anything I could, but I didn’t really learn how to do makeup until I moved here. Until I was out of the shadow my younger and prettier sister cast over me.
Anytime I attempted makeup at home, someone would comment.
Lizzie would tell me I did it wrong, that it made my lip disappear or nose look bigger.
My mother said the shades were wrong, my foundation never matched.
My brother told me I shouldn’t even try because “you can’t put lipstick on a pig.
” And because my own family said it, that meant everyone else had license to do the same.
Kids in school whispered behind my back.
Hell, sometimes not even in whispers. Old ladies at the market stopped to tell me that I would be prettier like my sister if I wore my hair differently or put on different clothes or covered up my breakouts.
People all around town thought they were being helpful, when all they were really doing was tearing me down, piece by piece.
Until there was nothing left of me.
There was only one boy in the school and town—the entire world—who stuck up for me and always treated me kindly, which was why I was so madly in love with Waylon Jones. I used to practice writing my name as Josephine Jones all over my notebooks and thought, for once, I could have something good.
Now, I know I can have good things. I only had to realize that I wouldn’t have them in West Virginia. I needed to find more…different.
I needed a new home and place and people.
I needed to learn how to shape my eyebrows and correctly use contour. I needed to join a gym with a step class that is so hard and fast I don’t have time to be self-conscious. I needed to find artists who don’t care about what I look like, only what my photographs look like.
I used to pray every night to wake up in a different body, with a different face, but living in Philadelphia has made me understand I had to find peace within myself.
Most days, I still wish I didn’t look as if Pablo Picasso was in charge of my features—picking random ones to mash together so none of it fits—but I am confident in the life I’ve made for myself.
My tiny apartment, my work, my friends, including Gregory, the man who sleeps by the bus stop and always prays over me when I give him a sandwich. I’d rather have his prayers and hugs than anyone else’s from back home—these are all things I’ve chosen.
And that is what makes me happy.
I can’t change what anyone thinks or says about me, but I can choose not to think or say them about myself.
At least that’s what the Post-it on my mirror in the bathroom reminds me, and after I finish my makeup I put on just because, I smile at my reflection, then lift my left hand up, the gold of my “engagement ring” glinting.
I may be Bucky Beaver, but Nico Tremblay thought I was good enough to be his pretend fiancée.