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Some of her anger is deflating. “I haven’t talked to Shelly in forever,” she admits.
“I’m sure she understands.” Why wouldn’t she? Being the significant other of an athlete is its own special club—harrowing, exciting, but with a lot of emotional baggage.
“Thanks, Charlie.” She gives me a hug. We play with the baby for a little while longer until Peyton takes her off to have a mid-morning snack in one of the other rooms, giving me time and privacy to talk to Christian.
“It’s a mess,” he admits when we sit down at the table. “Get us out of here ASAP. And go to Tiffany’s. This is something Pey Pey has been wanting for a while now. I was going to buy it for her birthday but. . .” he trails off. He’s worried that she won’t be around for her birthday. A bracelet isn’t going to convince her not to leave, but I’m not a couple’s counselor. I am an errand girl though. I take a photo of the diamond and gold bracelet he has on his phone. “Do your magic.”
“I will. You concentrate on making this trade worthwhile.” We run over a few broad ideas of what he wants in a home and a nanny, and then I dismiss him to get into the details with Peyton. Having facilitated their move two years ago on the opposite coast, I’m able to show her three properties I’ve already bookmarked online as recommendations when she returns from feeding baby Christie.
“I’m thinking Rancho Santa Fe. You’ll be living next to other athletes, bankers, and even the occasional movie star. There’s not a lot of racial diversity, but it’s better than it was, say, ten years ago.”
Peyton presses her lips together. “I’m having my mother move up. She wouldn’t have liked Baltimore, but San Diego would be okay.”
“See,” I nudge her slightly. “This isn’t so bad. I’m sure Christian was thinking of you when he asked for the trade.”
When she gives me a don’t bullshit me glare, I raise my eyebrows and move on. We both know Christian thinks of his career first and his family second, but I do think he loves Peyton. They’ve been together five years, which, for athletes, is like thirty in real-life terms. After contacting a real estate agent as well as giving Peyton instructions to two different parks and an indoor play area that she can take Christie to, I head over to the Fashion Valley Mall and the nearest Tiffany store.
When I get there, I pause to peruse the small black box displays of necklaces and watches for gifts for my family. I haven’t seen Mom and Dad in months, what with my business taking off. I need to get back to Chicago. I talk to them once a week, but it’s not the same. A delicate necklace with a citrine oval unfaceted gemstone with tiny delicate gold leaves curling around the edges catches my eye. It has my mom written all over it, and the price tag is one that even I can afford without dipping into my trust. Just beyond the black display block mounted on a thin steel pole, my gaze is arrested by a tall, broad-shouldered man leaning over a counter. As he straightens and his dark, military short hair comes into view, my heart skips a beat.
No, Charlotte. It is not Nathan. Not every tall, dark-haired male in San Diego is Nathan.
But I can’t tear my eyes away. I will him to look at me. The sales assistant is pulling out a tray and setting it in front of him. He lifts a shiny object from the tray and holds it up, turning slightly so that the light catches it. And I see it. And then him. The drumbeat in my ears is so loud it’s as if the percussion section of the entire band is standing right next to me. My breath is becoming shallow and harsh, but I can’t wrench my eyes away. I eat up this glimpse of him. My eyes hungrily rove over his lovely face, the strong nose and square jaw and full lips that are pursed slightly. His head cocks to the side, as if he’s trying to peer around the window display . . . at me? I duck to the side, pressing up against the gray granite exterior that frames the glass windows. Numerous mall shoppers walk by, probably staring at the strange girl plastered flat against the wall unmoving. Minutes pass, but I can’t leave. Nor can I go inside.
“Miss? Miss? Miss? Lady!”
The last word filters through my muddled brain, and I look up to see a police officer and a mall security guard standing in front of me. Their hands are on their hips, close to their weapons, and they appear confused and unhappy.
