by Pippa Grant
Truth? I like drive.
Didn’t exactly make it to the big leagues myself by half-assing it.
But I’m not letting it drive me into forever with a woman either.
I step outside with an old blanket that I keep in the basement for wrapping stuff when I move—which is approximately every two years or so since I entered the minors—and come to a halt, because Henri’s talking to someone in the darkness, and she doesn’t sound right.
“Oh, yes, Copper Valley is beautiful. I toured the Copperstone Building today—it’s the tallest building here—and I got to go all the way to the top and stare and stare at the scenery. This city is so pretty. With parks and trees and lovely buildings, and oh, gosh, the Blue Ridge Mountains! You can see the Blue Ridge Mountains from the top of—oh, okay. Mm-hmm.”
She sighs heavily, and her phone screen lights up as she pulls it away from her ear to squint at it, which also lights up her face. She looks like she’s telling ghost stories over a campfire, except it’s a ghost story that’s giving her constipation.
She didn’t even look like she was constipated after Jerry left her on her wedding day.
Maybe it’s a trick of the light. Or her hair, which is now covered with a bandana.
Except she’s also closing her eyes, leaning back against the old oak tree, and rubbing her temple.
It’s weird.
She looks defeated.
A tinny voice comes through the phone, and she leaps and puts it back to her ear. “Oh, good for Titus! Tell him Aunt Henri’s giving him a high five for using the potty like a big boy. Yes, naturally, after he washes his hands. Wouldn’t want to encourage bad hygiene! Oh, is that Tatiana cheering him on too? What a good sis—yes. Sure. Of course. I—Hi, Oliver.”
She pulls the phone away from her ear again, lighting up her wincing face, as a loud squawking comes through.
“Nice to hear your voice too, Oliver,” she calls to the phone.
It squawks again, then clearly says the entire alphabet, and finishes with an impersonation of Elvis, saying “Thank you. Thank you very much.”
“Wow, Oliver, that’s so great!” Henri cheers.
Is she cheering on an actual bird, or does she know someone who pretends to be a bird?
The fact that I honestly don’t know the answer to that question, and can’t even make an educated guess, says a lot about how much my life has changed in the last twenty-four hours.
“Oliver, can you put Elsa back—”
There’s another squawk, and then the bird-person starts singing that song.
The earworm song.
The one made famous by a certain ride at a certain amusement park, and fuck me with uncooked spaghetti, that’s gonna be stuck in my head all night long.
“Oh my gosh, Oliver, I’m so sorry, my phone battery is dying. I don’t know if—”
She cuts herself off, pulls the phone away, and hangs it up.
Then she sits there, thumbing over the screen.
“You’re not texting whoever that was to tell them your battery died, are you?”
She shrieks and drops her phone. “Luca! You scared me to death!”
“What the hell were you talking to?”
“My sister and her family.” Pause. “And their bird.”
I cross the small lawn and start shaking out the blanket. It smells like mothballs and musty basement, but we’re sleeping on ground that’s more dirt than grass, so does it matter? “Your sister makes you talk to her bird?”
“The first time Oliver learned to say a word, I asked if I could hear it, and now she makes sure I hear everything. My nephew learned to poop in the potty today too. Isn’t that awesome?”
Huh.
Henri knows sarcasm.
Didn’t see that coming.
“You and your sister don’t get along?” I guess.
“Oh, no! We get along great! We’re like two peas in a pod. She’s the perfect one with three kids and two more on the way and a handsome husband who gives her four-point-nine orgasms a week, a membership at the best gym in LA, the world’s most perfect name, a Better Homes and Gardens house, her own popular YouTube channel where she teaches yoga, and the ability to bend time so she can also be involved with the PTA where her oldest will start school year after next, and she also makes three hundred meals a week for the homeless.”
“That…makes you two peas in a pod?”
“Yes, Luca, because I’m the one without a home and children, with five failed engagements, the laziest cat in the universe, and a job that no one in my family considers a real job because I write about vampires that aren’t even very good vampires. I provide the balance by being the loser in the pea pod ecosystem.”
What the hell’s a guy supposed to say to that? “Mm. Pillows?”
“I had a house,” she grumbles. “Barry got it in our split.”
“Barry?”
“Number four.”
“You were engaged to a Barry before you were engaged to a Jerry?”
“Yes, and I was engaged to both a Kyle and a Lyle too, and if you think you have some new jokes to make about that, please consider that Elsa’s husband Roberto has already made seventy-five percent of all jokes that can possibly be made about them, mm-kay?”
“How did Barry get your house if you didn’t get married?”
She heaves an exasperated sigh and shoves a pillow at me. “It’s complicated, okay?”
“Did you co-sign on a house with your fourth fiancé and no marriage certificate?”
“No. I’m not that stupid.”
I wisely don’t point out that she was stupid enough to not keep her house, but she still skewers me with laser eyeballs in the darkness.
She also huffs. Loudly. And then keeps talking. “He moved in while we were engaged, and he brought his dog with bowel control issues, and also his ferret, and his beef jerky collection—”
“Beef jerky collection?”
“It wasn’t actually a collection. It was more like…he had an obsession. He ate it all, and then he’d go get more, and I thought it was cute that he was addicted so I called it his collection, because my house started to smell like he was made of beef jerky, and I didn’t want it anymore after we split up, so I let him have it.”
“You could’ve sold it.”
“Not without putting more than it was worth into getting the beef jerky dog poop smell out of the walls. And believe me, I learned my lesson. No more dating men who smell questionable or sleep with raw garlic under their pillows.”
Pillows.
Yep. I need to put that pillow to use before she starts talking about the rest of her exes.
“Some people just need someone to love them,” she says quietly. “I’m good at loving people. Why is that wrong?”
This Henri?
She’s more than I bargained for last night.
And this morning.
And at Brooks and Mackenzie’s place.
She’s not simply a hot mess.
She’s hurting because her drive has been taking her on all the wrong trips.
And that’s why I hate love. It’s this idealized fantasy of perfection that makes people fuck up more than they get right.
“Love itself isn’t wrong.” I tuck my hands under my head and stare up at the soft darkness. “But you need to quit loving people who don’t love you back.”
“What if no one ever loves me back?” she whispers.
My heart twists. Distant memories from childhood that I never wanted to see again poke their heads out of the dirt, and I have to swallow down the unexpected grit clogging my throat to do the one thing she’s asked in return for playing my girlfriend.
She wants my help in learning how to not fall in love.
And it suddenly feels so wrong.
She’s clearly more cut out for optimism than anyone I’ve ever been related to. Teaching her how to not fall in love feels like teaching a rainbow how to not sparkle.
An unpredictable, chaotic,
klutzy rainbow, but still a rainbow.
Watching her head straight into meeting my teammates in her pajamas shook something unfamiliar loose inside of me, and it has me off-kilter and thinking weird thoughts.
I roll onto my side to face her. “Fuck ’em. Love yourself, and forget anyone who doesn’t want to recognize and cherish what makes you special.”
Christ on parmesan. This conversation needs to end.
Her family are a bunch of dicks. Her exes are a bunch of dicks. And her self-esteem is a dick too if it’s telling her that she’s not lovable.
Of course she’s lovable. Probably to a normal person with healthy attitudes about love and commitment. One who likes all the optimism that she spews and who can handle her energy levels and who doesn’t think it’s odd that she dresses her cat in costumes.
One who’ll hear her confessing all this stuff and kiss her to shut her up, because a woman feeling down deserves to be kissed.
Needs to be kissed.
To be reassured that she doesn’t have to compete to impress a bunch of dicks, because she’s perfect the way she is, and whoever kisses her will appreciate her soft lips and her hot mouth and the enthusiasm that she’d put into kissing the fuck out of them back, and why the hell am I thinking about kissing Henri?
Holy shit.
I am.
I’m thinking about kissing Henri.
Is she a witch?
Or is it that she’s blindsided me with this unapologetic drive to get what she wants, when what she wants is a little crazy-pants?
“Mackenzie’s read your books,” I blurt.
She seems completely oblivious to my internal freaking out, though, as she mutters, “Wild, huh?”
Breathe, Rossi. Breathe. Think about ice cream. And deep-sea fishing. And hitting a home run. And petting dogs at the shelter.
Yeah. That’s helping with the freaking out.
I’m not in danger of popping a boner, because Nonna broke my junk, so I’m also not bothering with the whole picture your mother naked thing.
Or possibly knowing that my mother’s sleeping naked in my room right now has already done everything my dick needs it to do.
It’s not that I don’t like my mother. It’s more that I don’t want to think of any of my relatives naked.
Ever.
I blow out another slow breath and sneak a fast glance at Henri again. “You make a living off your books?”
There’s a beat of silence before she answers, and I get the feeling I’m on the receiving end of the look I used to give people when they’d ask if you could make a living playing baseball.
You have to be the best of the best, but I knew I would be the very best of the best.
I’m not—see also, I’ve been traded by half the teams in the league, or so it feels, and I’ve never once made it to the all-star game—but I’m still damn good if I’m playing in the pros.
“I do fine, yes,” she finally says.
“My cousin Alonzo tried self-publishing while he was recovering from being Eyed. Ended up needing therapy and blood pressure medication. Said it’s not as easy as it looks.”
“Recovering from being Eyed?”
“No, writing and publishing.”
“Yes, I got that part. Live it, thanks. I know it’s not as easy as it looks. What I’m curious about is, what kind of recovery did he need after being Eyed?”
Hell. If I explain this to her, it’ll probably end up in a book. Either that, or she’ll double-down on efforts to convince Nonna we’re real, and we’ll probably end up engaged.
“Look at that. Eleven-thirty. Lights out time.”
“Fine. Don’t tell me. I’ll make up my own version, and it’ll probably be better anyway.”
She stretches out next to me, and I study the outline of her profile. She’s on her back with her face tilted to the sky, where there’s not a star in sight because of all the ambient light from the city. It’s a big blanket of dark gray.
Feels wrong to go to sleep with Henri cranky.
“Probably would,” I agree softly. “Would yours involve a flaming asteroid made of toilets?”
She sniffs. “Amateur.”
Would you look at that?
I’m actually cracking up.
And not thinking about kissing her.
We’re two adults in a crappy situation making the most of it.
“I’ll get my mother a hotel room and change the locks on the house tomorrow,” I tell her.
“I can get a hotel room.”
“Not if you’re going to pretend to be my girlfriend for the rest of the season. Plus, we leave for an away series after the game tomorrow. My house will be empty.”
“Except for your Nonna.”
“I’ll take her with me.”
Fuckity fuckstrings. Where the hell did that come from?
Henri rolls to face me again. “She’ll want to watch us sext.”
“You’d rather she do that from here?”
“My entire career has prepared me for excellent sexting. But you…I know someone who can write you a sexting script, but you can’t use a script if your Nonna’s looking over your shoulder.”
“I can sext absolutely fine on my own.”
“Yeah, but it’ll be weird if I know it’s your own words.”
“It’ll be better if you know it’s my words, because then you have to learn to resist them. You don’t get to cheat, Henri. You can’t learn to not fall in love if you don’t believe it’s genuine.”
Yep.
I’m a masochistic idiot.
I’m asking Henri to sext with me.
It’s The Eye.
It’s Nonna’s Eye.
There’s no other explanation for wanting to kiss Henri and wanting to sext her, except possibly to convince myself that she’s what’s broken with my twig and berries today.
“Jerry was right. You can be a real dick.”
Hell. She probably knows what I was thinking, and she’s right. That was a dick thing to think. “Jerry’s a social-climbing tool who only wanted to be friends with me in grade school because I was the only one of the other outcasts too big for the bullies to pick on.”
She goes still.
Good.
Because I don’t talk about grade school, even if I don’t want to forget where I came from.
It’s complicated.
“How were you an outcast?” she asks softly.
I flip over to my other side, which gives me the perfect view of my shithole of a house.
“Because you were poor?” she persists, and I swear the other question is dangling there in her head. I can feel it. And how was Giovanni Rossi’s son poor? He played professional hockey. You couldn’t have been poor. Or picked on. Your dad was a star!
It’s what they all say if they get close enough.
And they all have no clue.
“Go to sleep, Henri. The world’s problems will still be there for you to solve in the morning.”
“I should know these things about you, Luca. If your grandmother can actually put The Eye on you, then this has to be as real as possible, because you can’t hide from curses.”
My pulse is suddenly soaring like a home run ball, except without the thrill that goes with knocking one out of the park.
“Yeah,” I finally say. “Because I was poor. My sperm donor shit away all of the cash he made before I was born. Everyone thinks you spend a year playing pro, you’re set for life, but you’re not. He wasn’t. And that’s what everyone I grew up with knew.”
She goes silent.
It’s worse than her talking, because silent means pity.
I don’t want pity.
I want to live my own life, on my terms, without making the same mistakes my parents made and without people who claim they only want what’s best pushing me into relationships that won’t work out.
And then I remember who I’m talking to. “Don’t,” I say shortly.
“I’m not feeling sorry for you.
I’m admiring how much you’ve done and how you live your life.”
“Don’t go digging into my life. I’m not a research project and I’m not inspiration for one of your books.”
She makes a muffled squeak, and her cat replies with a half-meow from the kitchen window.
The blanket rustles as she twists on it. “Do you know what?”
“Probably not.”
“Mind-reading is a good talent to have when you’re pretending to be someone’s boyfriend. Good job, Luca. We’re going to pull this off. High five.”
I twist to look at her.
She smiles brightly in the darkness, and fuck me if her enthusiasm isn’t a shade of adorable.
“Go to sleep, Henri.”
She settles back down, but I swear I can still hear her thinking.
And I also swear it’s about me.
14
Henri
I sleep like a hunted animal in the jungle. A wounded hunted animal who knows that the next few minutes might be her last.
Or possibly I’m being melodramatic, but that’s what happens when I don’t sleep well and I’m hot and I can’t stop obsessing over Luca being poor as a kid and how it probably ties into him living in a run-down house to save money so he doesn’t end up like his dad, and thinking about his dad makes me think about both his parents, and then his mom with my ex-fiancé, and then Luca’s ex-fiancée, and I want to know why he left her.
I can’t help myself. Diving into characters is what I do for my job, and now I have a new puzzle.
Namely, Luca Rossi.
Baseball player. Dick. Bearing wounds from childhood that he refuses to talk to me about and a secret past with a woman that he pretends doesn’t exist.
Or at least doesn’t think about enough for her to have come up in our conversations.
Spending time with someone like Luca should be helping me want to give love the middle finger, but it’s not.
Not yet.
I’m too intrigued by the puzzle of all the things I don’t know about him yet, which will undoubtedly be my downfall.
I sneak into the house before dawn to use the bathroom.
I’m tiptoeing, and I even remember to skip the saggy step. The last thing I want is to encounter either his mom or his nonna. My plan is to do my business and sneak out to a coffee shop for a morning of trying to write—trying being the operative word, since I haven’t been in the mood since Jerry happened.
