She calls me his wife like it’s a reality as fixed as my own name.
She’s one of the only people who knows the truth—just her, his parents, and his brother, as far as I’m aware.
Yet she acts like every word we said at that altar was real.
It’s enough to make me want to believe it, too.
By the third inning, hunger gnaws away at my stomach, a hollow reminder that all I had this morning was an artisanal hard-boiled egg.
Now, hours later, sitting stiffly between Scottie and Gordon, I’m staring longingly at the trays of hors d'oeuvres being passed around.
But I can’t eat.
Even if it were just me and Aldridge, I wouldn’t be able to. And not just because he used to praise me for having the table manners of a princess.
(Direct quote.)
I never eat messy things. I don’t like food getting on my chin or running down my hands or falling on my plate. I cut my salad to make sure every bite fits perfectly in my mouth.
Aldridge wouldn’t poke fun of me for eating—he’s hurt and jealous, not truly evil—but there’s a vulnerability to eating in front of another person that I’ll never let myself feel in front of Aldridge again.
And for the tenth time today, I wish Sean would show up, holding a huge green smoothie that would fill me up and make me smile. And then he’d sit next to me, cheer on the team, laugh with me, flirt with me. He wouldn’t sit like some polished accessory, making polite small talk with people he thought could help his career.
He would be here with me.Forme.
The thought makes me smile.
And it makes my hands shake a little, too.
I press them against my thighs, realizing they’re trembling from more than nerves.
I’m absolutely starving.
When Aldridge leans in to dominate another conversation with Gordon, I seize the chance—grabbing a sad-looking protein bar from a basket on the bar and slipping out into a quiet corner of the hallway.
I tear the wrapper open like I need it to breathe and take a huge bite, chewing almost nervously.
The scent of real food—hot dogs and kettle corn and sliders—drifts up from the concession levels, and I close my eyes just for a second, wishing it didn’t smell so good. Wishing I had the courage to eat it.
Wishing I had someone to eat it with.
I fish out my phone and text Sean without thinking:
KAYLA
What’s your favorite food?
The dots pop up almost immediately. I only wait maybe fifteen seconds for a response.
SEAN
Barbecue. Ribs, brisket, pulled pork, you name it.
I smile into my protein bar.
KAYLA
Nashville’s famous for barbecue, you know.
