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It has to be.
* * *
When I drop August off at practice, I don’t stay.
I never stay anymore. Every time I watch him jog onto the field alone, I feel guilty as shit but it’s for the best; August is constantly distracted when I’m there, always checking on me and evil-eyeing anyone who so much as glances in my direction. And there’s a lot of glancing.
I am, after all,TheCass Morgan’s Jilted Lover. His Abandoned Baby Mama. His Unsuccessful One Night Stand–my favorite, of course, because I love my unborn child being referred to as an un-success story. Random strangers on the Internet might’ve lost interest in me quickly—around the same time Cass was spotted with that pretty, leggy blonde—but Sun Valley residents did not. I’m still the talk of the town. Actually, that’s a little grandiose—I’m the talk of The Mom Squad. But considering my limited social circle, they might as well be the town.
At least today, I have a valid excuse for not going. The last of many doctor’s appointments is today, the final check-up before the imminent birth. My sister’s supposed to be joining me—going alone feels so fucking sad nowadays—but when I arrive home to find Kate on my doorstep, I wonder if plans have changed.
“Y’all have a roster or something?” I call out, slamming my car door perhaps a touch more aggressively than warranted.
“Joint Google calendar,” she quips right back, rising from the front steps and starting towards me. “Willow called.”
My shoulders slump; I know where this is going. “Work?”
Sympathy softens Kate’s features. “She asked me to take you.”
“No,” I’m firmly insisting before the words even fully leave her mouth. “I’ll take myself.”
“Sunday—”
“No, Kate.” It doesn’t feel right, having Cass’ family members bring me to appointments he can’t be at. I’m a multifaceted woman; I can be pissed as all hell at him and his absence but still understand how much it kills him to not be here for things like this—hence why I don’t tell them about him, so he doesn’t know what he’s missing.
Although, as I soon find out, my thoughtful silence is worth a whole lot of naught, when I’m surrounded by freaking tattle-tales.
“Cass said it was fine.”
“You told him?”
“I assumed he knew.”
“Well, he didn’t.” I blow out a frustrated breath. “He doesn’t need to know every little thing. He’s a very busy man.”
“He’s never too busy for you. You know that.”
I don’t think I do. Maybe if I dyed my hair an icy blonde and grew a foot.
“Sunday.” A hand cups my elbow, guiding me to face Kate, and only when I clock the look on her face do I realize I accidentally spat my petty, jealous thoughts aloud. “C’mon.”
“It’s fine.” I shrug her off. “We’re not together. He can do whatever he wants.”
“He’s not doing whatever he wants.”
“Uh-huh.”
“He wants you, Sunday.”
“No, he doesn’t,” I all but shriek, so tired of hearing that, so tired of the sympathy and the pity and the mourning of a relationship that never actually existed. “He never did,” I find myself adding, the words spilling out like vomit. “It was fake. Literally all of it was fake. We were never together. We were a press release, Kate. All he wanted me for was good publicity.”
Any other time, I would marvel in having stupefied the unflappable Kate. I would take a mental picture of her shock and catalog it, save it for a rainy day, mark it in my calendar. Right now, though, I’m too horrified by my accidental slip of the tongue.
Kate recognizes my horror, I think. Takes pity on me. Bestows on me a pat on the shoulder and some pretty words. “It didn’t look very fake to me.”
And see, that’s the problem. Because it didn’t feel very fake either.
47
