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Chapter 3
Izzie
It’s fine.
It’s fine. I’m fine.
Everything’s fine.
I keep repeating this to myself as I grip the steering wheel, wiping alternating sweaty palms on my khakis. I’ve got to pull myself together before I pick up Liam from school.
I brake to a stop at a red light and heave a sigh as my forehead bumps the top of the steering wheel. The familiar litany repeats itself.
It’s fine.
It’s fine. I’m fine.
Everything’s fine.
In all honesty, I’ve had the same three phrases on loop in my head since Fran announced her “good news.” I believe it’s a default loop, triggered when you’re forced to smile at something even though you are quietly shrieking and/or dying inside.
I can’t help it. This weird brain loop is just a product of my genetic code. And there’s no denying DNA.
At that thought, a half-hysterical laugh bubbles up, tempered by some bitter, angry tears.
Ugh!I’ve got to pull myself together. And, after glancing around, the elderly womantsk-ing in the Mercedes next to me evidently thinks I should, too.
I give her a deranged grin and wave.
I look at the clock. I still have a few minutes before I absolutely have to pick Liam up. So, once the light turned green, I make my way into a Dairy Queen parking lot and wallow.
I let myself go for a minute or two more, venting out my anger and grief and annoyance.
I deserve it. I kept everything locked tight. And, despite my brief lapse in language in my office, I was nothing but pulled-together and professional at work.
Fran eventually came to my office, and we finished my tour, introducing me to all of the coaches and the manager. Then I finished setting up my computer, even scheduling my first couple of one-on-one sessions with the players.
And I smiled.
The whole damn day, I smiled like I’d just won the lottery. I’m pretty sure my eyes betrayed my true feelings, but neither Fran nor anyone else noticed, so…mission accomplished.
Because my true feelings are this: IhateBrady Thomas.
I detest his square jaw and chiseled cheek bones. I abhor his slightly too long, tousled blonde hair. And don’t even get me started on the drivel that he spews in his post-game interviews.
I curse his throwing arm and his touchdown passes. And I have made it my personal sports fan mission to loathe every single team he’s ever played for.
I crow in triumph when his throws are intercepted, and I cackle in delight when the opposing team’s defensive line makes a sack. He is, quite simply, the worst.
And now, to perform my job to the high standards I hold myself to, I have to give him my best. As if I needed another reminder that life’s not fair.
I check the time as I wrap up my venting session and realize I’m going to be late. So I pull into the drive-thru to get Liam and me Blizzards. In for a penny, in for a pound, as Gigi always said.
Plus, I earned it. And he deserves it for being awesome. And mine.
As I pull up to the school, I’m happy to notice that I am not the last one to pick up their kid. Only the second to last. So, points to me.
Still, Liam rolls with the punches, and he doesn’t look even mildly disappointed that I’m late. He just hugs the after-school volunteer goodbye and waves to the other kid waiting to be picked up, though hedoesfeel the need to point out the obvious.
