Page 140 of Can't Always Get What You Want

The dream of her at the ESPYs—and the memory of her pretending I’m a nobody sits side-by-side in my chest like oil and water—never mixing.

Weighing me down.

Hope and humiliation.

If she wants to let me go, I won’t stop her.

31

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Of all the ways I pictured spending the night of the ESPY Awards—my first ever—I can’t say I imagine I would be playing emotional support to my brother while he mourns the end of his very public, very toxic relationship.

But here we are.

He is being such a buzzkill…

“She could’ve waited until after the awards,” Gio mutters to himself, straightening his already-straight collar in the mirror of his highly overpriced penthouse hotel room. “Congratulations on your nomination, babe,” his voice slides into a ridiculous, nasally imitation of Giselle’s French accent, “but I don’t see this going anywhere.”

I nod, fluffing my platinum blonde hair in the mirror adjacent, doing my best to outline my lips in the bold, fire-engine red pencil without drawing outside the lines.

“Her name was Giselle,” I remind him calmly, tracing the cupid’s bow of my upper lip. “What were you expecting?”

Our eyes meet in the mirror.

“Uh. Some loyalty?”

Loyalty? Ha! Yeah right.

I snort. “You met her at a sponsored tequila launch party—and she was there as someone else’s date. I think loyalty was a stretch.”

You lose them how you get them.

How soon they forget.

Gio groans and adjusts the lapels of his tux for the fifth time, muttering something about how ‘you never really know someone until they dump you right before the biggest night of your life.’

To be fair, the ESPYsarea big deal. His name is on the ballot for Best NHL Player. The empty suit bag from Tom Ford hangs on the closet door and a private car waits for us downstairs.

And he’s spending it wallowing over Giselle, who spent most of her time taking selfies and posting them on social media.

Personally? Couldn’t stand her.

I was relieved when she dumped him; I knew he was never going to break up with her. Gio is too nice of a guy. He worked too hard at his relationships—even the ones that were doomed to fail.

“God,” he mutters, pacing the carpet, waiting for me to finish pruning. “Wouldn’t it be ironic if she’s here tonight? My agent told me yesterday that Tony Rossi had contacted him for her number. If that prick brings her tonight…”

I’m half listening to him whine. “At least you manage to have partners. I’m still single and I didn’t get dumped. What’smyexcuse?”

“You’re single by choice,” Gio mutters, pulling a lint roller from the bathroom and attacking invisible specks on his sleeves. “You have standards.” His eyes widen at his choice of words. “Shit. I didn’t mean it like that. I meant…shit. I don’t know what I meant.”

I grin, bending to strap on my red heels while he runs the lint roller over his jacket before sitting on the coffee table, elbows on knees, fingers raking through his freshly styled hair.

I should be irritated with him.

And I am, a little.

He’s supposed to be soaking in the moment; basking in it! Moments like this only come once in a lifetime and it’s being overshadowed by his gold-digging ex-girlfriend.

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