I stand in front of my full-length mirror, debating between the charcoal leggings or the crimson ones that perfectly match Croix’s white and red jersey. He’s finally back from his intense training camp in Europe, and as promised, I’m going to see him play. It’s strange, really. Now that we aren’t a “thing” and there are no secret romantic stakes to hide from the press, everything feels...simple.
We’re just friends. Best friends. The weird kind who can ignore the messy history, talk about the new girls he’s been seeing, and focus on what really matters—the comfort and safety we provide for each other. Thankfully, Croix provides enough of his own brand of drama to make my life seem almost normal by comparison.
Because reclaiming my life after Vegas has been anything but simple. It’s been a bureaucratic nightmare. Most people who lose a purse just have to report their cards stolen and maybeupdate a few PINs. But in my case—because I’m convinced God is punishing me—I didn’t just lose a lipstick and a designer wallet, I lost my entire identity.
My first two weeks back were a mix of frantic phone calls and holding patterns. I had to cancel every card, watch the mailbox like a hawk for replacements, and go through the grueling process of proving to the bank that I was, in fact, Aspen Hunter.
For a woman trying to launch a business while winding down her responsibilities at the hospital, it was a special kind of hell. I’ve spent hours re-ordering my Aspen & Oak business checks and filing for a new driver's license—all while trying to explain to the DMV clerk why I didn't have a single shred of photo ID left to my name.
Imagine if I’d had to change my name too!
I’d nearly forgotten that an impromptu, reality-TV-induced marriage was the reason why I’d taken this very inconvenient trip to hell, when I received an email from theSightUnseenproducers. Apparently, I’m not the only one who lost their spouse post-Vegas. They informed me that several of their “newlywed” couples lose touch after the haze of drunken vows. Some flee their spouses intentionally, while others, like Luca and me, simply lose their belongings and contact info in the midst of all the drama. And because of this, there are new rules.
If a couple loses touch after their nuptials, before the show facilitates a formal reconnection, both parties must confirm they actually want to stay married. According to the producers, they’re still waiting to hear back from Luca. Apparently, he’s been traveling for work, and it’s been hard to pin him down to confirm he still wants this. Me.
So, I wait.
The silence is a slow-growing bruise on my ego. I try to tell myself it’s just logistics—bad Wi-Fi in remote locations or a rigorous work schedule. But a nagging voice in the back of mymind wonders what there is to contemplate. Three months ago, he was whispering forever through a thin wall. Now, I feel like an item on a to-do list he hasn't checked off yet.
I’ve never been good at being an afterthought. I’m a woman who manages trauma wards and builds businesses from the ground up. I provide my own stability. I’m not the one who waits around for a man to provide it for me. And for this reason, your boy Luca has another 24-hours before I call the whole thing off myself.
I give my reflection one last look, adjusting the hem of my charcoal leggings. If Luca is out there “figuring things out,” that’s his business. Today, I’m going to be in the stands for the man who actually shows up. This is about my best friend Croix.
I’m applying my Bixa Beauty lip whip when my phone rings.
This hoe.
“Hey, Clarissa!” I chirp, injecting as much fake enthusiasm as I can muster into the greeting.
Clarissa is my cousin with the perfect life, the perfect children, and a perfectly round belly as she totes around her fourth bundle of privilege. We were inseparable growing up, but her mother—my father’s sister—decided early on that she was going to raise her children “differently” than other Black families. That meant private schools, language tutors, and the strategic wherewithal to land a rich husband. She also doesn’t allow her children to drink Kool-Aid because she’s convinced they will end up wearing nappy braids and baggy jeans as a result of the sugar’s influence. So naturally, I try to avoid this woman at all costs.
“So,” she sings. “Are you coming to my gender reveal?”
I look at my smartwatch as if there’s a calendar on the blank screen. “Umm, Clarissa? You’re barely three months pregnant. When is this gender reveal supposed to happen?”
“Oh!” She laughs, that airy, effortless sound that makes me want to bite a bullet. “It’s not for a few months, but since it’s atJake’s parents' home on Martha’s Vineyard, we’re just trying to get a headcount early.”
I groan internally. “Right. Jake’s parents’ place.”
“So, is that a yes? Pretty please, Penny? We haven't hung out in forever!”
“Fine,” I give in, weakened by the sound of my childhood nickname and the masochistic part of me that still misses the girl she used to be. “I’ll think about it. It really depends on my client load by then. Running a start-up keeps me pretty buried, you know.”
“Aww, right! I forgot about your little venture! Well, I really hope you can make it, Penny. I’d love to catch up so you can tell me all about it.”
“Great,” I say through gritted teeth, not missing how she just called Aspen & Oaklittle.
She gets on my absolute last nerve. Showing up at a Martha’s Vineyard estate newly divorced is going to be humiliating—especially in front of Clarissa. If showing up single wasn’t already a satisfying enough win for her, showing up divorced will probably send her into pre-term labor.
As I hang up, I find myself sending a silent prayer toward the heavens that Luca is actually still in this with me.
***
The arena is a modern marvel of glass and steel, a glowing crown in the center of Cinnamon Grove that looks more like a high-tech spaceship than a sports complex. Its sweeping, aerodynamic curves are illuminated by a soft, ethereal light, and the sheer scale of the place makes me feel like a very small part of a very big machine.
Fans are everywhere, a sea of red and white jerseys pulsing with a pre-game energy that is almost tactile. I feel a bit like a secret agent as I’m ushered through the private VIP entrance. Croix had insisted on the same treatment that the wives andgirlfriends get, promising that nobody would raise an eyebrow at my presence. “Everyone knows I wouldn't invite a woman to a game like that,” he’d said, his voice casual. The comment stung and relieved me in equal measure. It was true, even if it highlights exactly where I stand in his hierarchy of “just friends.”
I pass through three separate security checkpoints, my bag being scanned with more scrutiny than an airport terminal, until I’m finally met by Tatum.
