Page 4 of A Fool's Game

He’s nodding, smile still in place. “I suppose that’s true. I guess I’m just not used to people being so…what’s the word?”

“Blunt?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Forward? Forthcoming? Candid?”

He laughs, and I bask in the attention.

“What are you, an English major?”

It’s my turn to shrug. “Something like that.”

“Okay, so what happened instead? I mean, I know my dad didn’t fall in love with your mom and make us stepsiblings.”

“He fired her, we got a new job at another estate, and she fell down the stairs and died of head trauma.”

He stops short, glass halfway to his lips, mouth hanging slightly open. “What?”

I shrug again, unwilling to repeat myself, especially when I know he heard me just fine.

“Really?”

I nod.

He sets down his glass without taking a sip and shakes his head. “Gem, I’m sorry.”

“Me, too.”

We both stare anywhere but at each other for a long, awkward moment. I’ll be damned if I’m going to be the one to crack first, and I don’t have to wait long for Ainsley to give under the pressure.

“My mom died of cancer,” he blurts out.

An offering of pain for my pain.

“I know.”

He nods. “Yeah. I guess you would. Everyone knew.”

I take a long sip of my beer, wondering where to go from here. Wishing I’d pretended to be a stranger who happened to sit next to a tall, effortlessly handsome, unseasonably tan, college student in a bar on Christmas.

Would we be locked together in a grimy stall right now instead of sitting here awkwardly, thinking about dead moms?

I silently curse my honesty.

“So, how did you get from…from that,” he stumbles a bit in his usually confident speech trying to avoid repeating what I told him about my mom’s accident. “To college in Seattle? I mean, you must be really smart, of course?—”

“Because I didn’t have rich parents to pay my way?” I interrupt him, narrowing my eyes playfully.

He blushes slightly, shaking his head. “That’s not what I meant.”

“It’s fine. I don’t want to talk about my life story anyway.”

“Okay,” he starts hesitantly, as if trying to decide whether to call out the fact that all we’ve talked about so far is my sad life. “What do you want to talk about?”

I narrow my eyes and glance around the room, turning halfway in my seat before I spot them. The perfect odd couple for this game. “Those people.” I point with my nose, and Ainsley turns to follow my gaze.

I spin around completely on my red vinyl stool, so my back is against the bar, pint in hand. “What’s their story?”

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