Page 12 of The Love Playbook

Barb shifts, her gaze sheepish as it flicks from my father to me. “Just your father.”

I bark out a laugh and pinch the bridge of my nose, unable to believe this is even happening. “So, my father’s a playboy and you’re essentially on the rebound. How could it not go wrong?” I mutter, more for my own benefit than theirs.

“Hey,” Chris motions toward his mother, “she is far from being on the rebound.”

“We’re adults, your parents,” my father reminds me. “We don’t need your approval, or for you to agree with our choice, but we would like your blessing.”

I huff out a breath at his audacity. I had a front-row seat to the demise of his relationship with my mother. I witnessed allthe fights and the anger and the resentment. Then I watched as their nasty divorce dragged on and my father proceeded to date everything with tits and ass in a five-mile radius while my mother wallowed in a pit of despair. And now he wants me to be happy for him?

“Whatever,” I say, throwing my hands up. “Have at it. Get married. Get divorced. I don’t give a damn.”

Just don’t expect me to be there.

My father’s shoulders slump, relieved at what he perceives as my acquiescence.

“Have you set a date?” Chris asks.

Barb bites her lower lip while my father runs a hand over the back of his neck. “We’ve set a date for the spring. You’ll both be on break and football will be over. We thought it would be the best time, because we’d like you both to be in the wedding.” Dad glances between us. “As best man and maid of honor.”

I choke out a startled sound. This just keeps getting better and better.

How the hell am I going to tell my mother? She’ll be beside herself. Broken. Devastated.

Somehow the repercussions of my father’s behavior always fall to me. I’m the one that has to tell her. I’m the one that has to bear the weight of his actions. And I’m sick of it. Tired of being the middleman and the one to suffer from their choices.

“No.” I stand from my spot in the chair.

“Excuse me?” My father blinks up at me, and I don’t dare glance over at Barb.

“I said no. You wanna get married again? Fine. But you’ll do it without me, because I had a front-row seat to the first performance, and trust me when I say, I don’t want an encore.”

“Charlotte . . .” He stands, reaching toward me, but I take a step away and shake my head. “You can’t be serious. You’re acting like?”

“This is a mistake?” I interrupt.

“Please,” my father pleads, raking his hands through his hair in frustration. “Will you just think about it?”

“I have to go. Mom’s waiting,alone,” I add, my tone sharp. “She’ll want to know how things went, and I’ll get to be the lucky one to tell her.” My gaze lingers on his, catching the regret that darkens his eyes.

I make a move to leave, but he blocks me. “You’re not responsible for her happiness any more than I am,” he says.

A dry laugh crackles in my throat like splintering plastic. “Is that what you tell yourself?” I clench my jaw, nostrils flaring. “What am I saying?” I shake my head. “Of course it is. You left her. She needed you, and you left.” My voice breaks. “But I don’t have that luxury,” I say, and then I brush past him without so much as a second glance.

Chapter 4

CHRIS

Isink down onto the couch beside my mom and hand her the steaming cup of chamomile tea I made her. She glances up at me and tries for a smile, the corners of her eyes crinkling while I assess her with concern. Her normally sleek blonde locks are slightly tousled from running her hands through them, the blue of her eyes dull with fatigue.

I sling my arm around her as she takes a sip of her tea, waiting for her to break the heavy silence. “Well, that could have gone better.”

“You know it’s not personal, right? Charlotte’s reaction?” I ask.

Mom sighs and leans into my side. “Yeah. Garry wondered how she’d take the news. I guess we have our answer.”

I run a hand over the back of my neck, wondering how to phrase my next question. The couple of times I’ve met Garry, I’vecome to like him. He’s a pretty chill dude, and most importantly, good to my mother, but I’d be lying if Charlotte’s words don’t get under my skin at least a little bit. I don’t care if he seems like Mr. fucking Rodgers. Charlotte’s known him for a hell of a lot longer than any of us.

“And you’re sure? About him, about getting married?”

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