Chapter 23
Tessa
"Ooh, Moisturizing Mango or Brightening Berry?"
Ruthie turns and holds up a soft yellow facemask packet with a beehive in the center. "What about Hydrating Honey?"
I narrow my eyes at all of our choices, then glance back at her. We both nod, giggling as we grab handfuls of each of the colorful packages hanging on the wall in front of us.
"This is going to be so much better than playing Candy Land like Dad suggested," Ruthie says, tossing the packets into the cart.
"Stop," I say, pausing with both hands on the handle. "He did not."
We walk further down the aisle as Ruthie's eyes grow wide. "I know," she says dramatically. "I love him, but come on… board games? Could you imagine?"
"Fun fact," I say, smiling at the memory. "My sister Jo begged us to play Chutes and Ladders with her until she was like fifteen."
Her mouth drops open. "Seriously?" she asks. "Wait, is this the same one who made you have a food fight on your birthday?"
It takes me a minute to remember the first conversation we had about my sister, but when I realize what she's talking about, I nod.
"Hmm… sounds like she didn't want to grow up anymore than Dad wants me to."
I stop, pausing in the middle of the aisle. "Huh, I never thought of it like that." Ruthie shrugs. "Jo just doesn't like anything mainstream. If other people think it's cool, she automatically hates it. If it's new, she assumes it's terrible. If it's popular or branded, it's instantly overrated."
Ruthie tilts her head. "That's really strange."
I laugh at her honesty. "Yeah, it kind of is."
"Well, if we did board games," she says, circling back to how this whole thing started. She reaches out and runs her hand against a stack of fuzzy pink robes hanging within reach. "The girls would totally think I was lame."
I wince at the thought that Ruthie's friends could think she was anything but perfect. "Well, I never thought Jo was lame. A little strange maybe. But it's cool to be different."
She scoffs quietly. "I think I'm different enough." Her expression is casual, but I notice the way her cheeks flush ever so slightly.
We walk toward the snacks. "What do you mean?" I question as we reach the first end cap.
She lifts one shoulder, brushing it off again, but her eyes are full of a worry that wasn't there before. "I don't know."
We head down the first aisle where every flavor chip is on display, and I weigh my options. Do I let it go or press her to answer so I can help somehow? But before I can decide, her face lights up, grabbing my attention.
"Cheese Balls!" Ruthie yells, diving toward a giant cylinder container.
I laugh at her choice—and the change in conversation. "Should we get those?" I ask.
She groans. "Dad never lets me. He says they're not healthy… just orange-dusted styrofoam."
I purse my lips. "Well, yeah, that's true."
Ruthie's shoulders fall as the corners of her mouth turn down again, and she walks past the plastic tubs.
"But that's why they're so delicious," I sing before she gets too far away.
She whips around, her face bright.
I remember back to when I told Liam I'd follow his lead. So far, I think I've done a pretty good job at maintaining his rules and upholding his expectations. But if some fake cheese-flavored air can make Ruthie's day—and reset her mood from whatever just shifted it—is it really worth denying her?
"Toss them in," I say, nodding toward the cart.
"Seriously?"
I throw her a wink. "You only turn twelve once, right?"
She squeals as she wraps her arms around the massive container and sets it in the cart. We continue down the aisle, grabbing some of the snacks from our original list.
"So, have you known these girls long?" I ask, still thinking about her comment from earlier. I've seen her friends at practice a time or two, but not enough to notice how they interact off the field.
"Three of them, yeah, but our team changes a little each year. The other three I just met this season. They're so cool." She tosses a bag of trail mix in.
"Well, I'm excited to meet them."
She smiles briefly before it falls again. "I still wish I could have invited Norah and Sera," she grumbles.
I smother a laugh. This girl's all over the place. "Come on," I say, leaning closer to her. "Let's go grab some sugar."
Grant
Hey guys.
Jo
He lives!
Owen
What's up, bro?
Grant
I mostly need Tessa.
Margot
You do know you can text her separately, right?
Jo
And what does Lady Tess have that we don't, G-Money?
Grant
A college degree.
Owen
Bro, seriously? You realize I have two…
Margot
I literally just graduated, Grant.
Grant
It's not the same.
Margot
And why's that?
Grant
IDK. It's Tess.
Jo
I'll just see myself out. Grant… always a pleasure.
Owen
What do you need?
Grant
Help with my resume.
Margot
Yeah… I'm out on that. I can't even look at another formal document.
Jo
Told you… the corporate world is LAME.
Owen
Good call. Ask Tess. I suck at that shit.
Margot
I thought you were leaving, Joanna.
Jo
Right… bye!
I read through my messages as quickly as I can while Ruthie stretches with the rest of her team.
My pocket has been vibrating since we pulled up to the field, and now I know why.
I glance up, spotting Ruthie with the three girls I've seen her with before, then shoot off a response before shoving my phone back into my hoodie.
Email me what you have, and I'll take a look.
My brother responds almost immediately by simply liking my text. Typical Grant.
"Tess!" Ruthie calls as she jogs over to the sidelines.
"Hey," I say, leaning on my knees. "You okay?"
"Did you ask them yet?" She looks up at me doe-eyed.
"Not yet," I admit. "But don't worry, I will."
"Okay," she nods quickly. "Do you remember who their moms are?"
I look over at the three women huddled together, their handbags slung over their shoulders and their arms pulled across their chests. "Yeah, I got it. Don't worry."
She grins. "Thanks, Tess."
I smile back. "Hey, did you ask the girls?"
She nibbles the inside of her cheek. "Yeah, they just keep saying they aren't sure."
"Okay, I'll ask. I promise."
"Kay." She throws her arms around my waist, then turns and runs back toward the team.
I blow out a breath and glance again at the women I'm supposed to check in with about their daughters coming to Ruthie's birthday party tomorrow.
If you ask me, it's rude enough that they didn't respond to the invites.
But not saying anything in person—when they see Ruthie and one of her adults twice a week—is even worse.
How hard would it be not to leave the girl—and her poor dad—hanging until the day before?
Checking my phone again quickly, and skimming through the petty comments my siblings are still throwing around, I pull on the collar of my hoodie and walk over.
I pass by a few other spectators—some parents I know belong to one of her three closer friends, and some dads of the boys on the team.
But as I get closer to the three musketeers, still closer than necessary to watch their daughters practice throw-ins, I pause.
"So, Ruthie's birthday party tomorrow… did we decide what we're doing?" One mom in a cream-colored sherpa pull-over—which is completely unnecessary for tonight's weather—looks at the other two for input.
I square my shoulders toward the field, but all of my attention is still on them, my ears thumping at the rate of my heartbeat.
"I don't know," the one who must have come from the office says. She's in a camel cardigan and the only person wearing slingback kitten-heel mules to soccer practice. "I love Liam, but… a sleepover with seven young girls? Can he really handle that?"
A fire sparks in my belly as I feel the need—and desire—to rush to Liam's defense. I wait, looking for more information, or even better, hoping that they set themselves straight.
"I just don't know if I'm comfortable with a bunch of preteen girls at a man's house anyway. Especially with no woman in the picture? I mean, what if one of them needs something… personal?"
The other two women nod in response to the third one's question. This one is in leggings and a lycra jacket with a back vent and thumb holes, but two hundred dollar sneakers that look like they've never touched a gym mat.
"What about the nanny?" Sherpa Lady whispers.
I glue my eyes to Ruthie with a ball above her head and wipe my expression.
The pretend gym-goer, who I only recognize without looking because she has the twang of a valley girl, answers. "James and I were talking about that. Do you think he's seeing this one?"
My blood runs cold for many reasons, mostly because why is Liam—sweet, gentle Liam—the topic of anyone's conversation with a bad taste in their mouth? But also, why are they talking about me at all? And what does she mean this one?
I pretend to follow the team as they make their way to the other side of the field, and glance over, that spark now a fire in my chest.
"I doubt it," Slingbacks says. "I heard he hasn't seen anyone since Ruthie came into the picture."
"What? No."
She clicks her tongue. "Right? That fine ass… seems like a shame for it to go to waste."
The group of them burst out in giggles. "Marianne," the one in the leggings squeals. "You better not let your husband hear you say that."
She scoffs. "Please, like he's ever around."
The group goes quiet until Slingbacks chimes back in. "It really is a shame, though. The poor girl has no mother. I wonder what happened."
"I know," Sherpa says. "But I'm still not sure I'm completely comfortable with Kenzie staying the night. Maybe they could just go for the party and not sleepover?"
There's a coo of oohs and great ideas, and I start to think the gossip session might be over. But when I gear up to waltz over to them still, the not-such-a-gym rat starts it up again.
"If he's not sleeping with the nanny…." Her voice trails off just enough for me to react.
My ears perk up as the heat in my chest travels the length of my body. My cheeks warm, and a rage sets in that I'm not sure I can contain. Who do these women think they are?
For Ruthie's sake, I hold myself back from marching into their little clique of mean girls, but my feet are itching to take off.
"Then… ?" one pries, and it keeps me glued to my spot, wanting to know the answer.
"Then she definitely wants to."
My whole body twists toward them.
So, I've had thoughts… that's none of their damn business. And I won't stand here and let them make a fool of me, Liam, or Ruthie. I lift one foot to stomp their way, but a rickety voice behind me stops me in my tracks.
"Don't let them get to you, sweetie."
I spin around to find the woman known as Grandma Birdie sitting in her collapsible chair, peering up at me.
"Excuse me?" I ask, not sure I even heard her correctly. I didn't realize anyone else was listening to their conversation. I definitely didn't realize Grandma Birdie would be capable.
"That Liam is nicer than all of those bitches," she continues, pulling a smile out of me. "They just think they're better because they've got a slit between their legs where he probably has a nice, thick—"
The sound of the coach's whistle drowns out the rest of her sentence—thankfully—but I can tell she isn't finished.
"They have nothing to worry about with Liam, as I'm sure you know.
That man is as solid as can be—and a better parent than most. He loves that little girl more than anything.
You can see it in his eyes and his smile and the way he interacts with her—she's his whole world, even with everything else he has going on. "
Her words ease my anger, but I still shake my head gently. "I'm sorry, do you know them personally?"
She waves me away. "Oh, no. Not anymore than I know that one in the god-awful sweater that makes her look like a sheep. But I do know she's sneaking around with the other one's husband."
My mouth drops open. "Which one?" I ask, instantly invested.
She nods toward the group of them. "Mules McGee," she says, her voice cracking with age.
"Wow," I say simply, looking at her. "And she's standing there judging everyone else."
She rolls her eyes. "It's what they do. They waste away the practice by gossiping about the rest of us to escape for an hour from their own miserable lives."
I smother a laugh because it shouldn't be funny. But somehow I know Grandma Birdie's right.
"They'll show up to the party," she reassures. "Don't you worry. They'd never allow themselves—or their bratty kids—to be on the outside of anything."
I stare in their direction, one of them meeting my gaze, then dropping hers immediately. "I'm Tessa by the way," I say gratefully, reaching out my hand.
She slides her palm into mine, wrinkled by years of life and buckets of information. "Birdie."
"And which player do you know?" I ask, anticipation replacing the heat that once flooded me.
She parts her lips, but the whistle blows again. I look over my shoulder to find Ruthie, and when I turn back around, all Birdie does is wink.