Page 22 of The Fake Husband Play
Elly: Thank God! Tell her I love her to the moon and back, and I’ll be there soon. I got a ride from a nice guest at the party, so I didn’t have to fight for an Uber downtown.
Nancy: Good! Drive safe, and I’ll let Mimi know her mama is getting close. She’ll be so happy.
“Mimi’s fever is coming down,” I say, breath rushing out as I sag into the seat, letting my phone flop back into my lap. “My babysitter said the IV meds are already working.”
“That’s great news,” Grammercy says. “But I’m not surprised. I’ve heard good things about the Children’s Hospital. We’re lucky to have such a great place for NOLA kids to get help.”
“As long as they take your insurance.” The words come out sharper than I intended, and I immediately feel like an ungrateful jerk. After all, I stillhavegood insurance. For now… “Sorry, I don’t mean to sound bitter or ungrateful.”
“You don’t,” he says, eyes locking with mine as we pause at a red light. “You sound like a mom who loves her kid and hates that the world is so fucking unfair sometimes. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“Thanks,” I say, touched. And yes, a little tingly.
But damn…he gives some electrifying eye contact.
I’m almost glad when the light turns green, and I can breathe easier again as he focuses on the road.
In just a few minutes, we leave the familiar chaos of the French Quarter behind, heading into the Garden District. Grammercy’s sleek car speeds past sprawling mansions with yards overflowing with oak trees and secrets.
You can feel the ghosts in this part of town, but I kind of like it. Knowing how fraught our city’s past has been makes me feel less alone. People have always struggled in NOLA. But people have also risen and triumphed and changed things for the better. People have partied and danced and laughed in the streets with the people they love, and that’s part of the spirit that haunts New Orleans, too.
Dark and light. Love and hate.
Hope and despair…
We have it all, and I love that about my hometown.It’s why I’ll probably never leave, no matter how hard things get. I’m a part of this land, this city, the spirit of the place where the bayou meets the sea.
“I love this part of town,” I say, gazing out the window.
“Me, too,” he says. “It feels haunted, but…in a good way. If that makes sense?”
I jerk my focus back to his profile, wondering if reading minds is one of his many talents. “I was just thinking the same thing.”
He shoots another stomach-pitching grin my way. “Guess great minds think alike, Miss…” He arches a pointed brow. “No pressure, but Iwouldlike to know your name. If you feel like sharing it.”
“Wow, I’m so sorry,” I say, exhaling a shaky laugh as I realize he’s right. “I’m Eloise, but everyone calls me Elly. It’s so nice to meet you.”
“Good to meet you, too,” he drawls. “I’m?—”
“I know who you are,” I cut in. Pretending otherwise would be a big fat lie. I’m not about to tell him that I’m his number one podcast stalker fan, but there’s a limit to how much I’m willing to fudge the truth. “Grammercy Graves, Stanley Cup winner, hometown boy, kid brother to Grant Graves, rookie of the year, former Badger, now with the Voodoo and primed to give us an opening season NOLA will never forget.” I exhale an only slightly awkward laugh. “I’m very excited to have you home and playing for us. Very,veryexcited. Big fan.”
“Really? You follow the game pretty closely, then, huh?” There’s genuine surprise in his voice, and I think, a sliver of delight.
That sliver is enough to keep me gushing, “I’m a complete hockey nerd. Have been since I was a kid.”Hockey has always been a safe place for me, something I can geek out about without feeling like a weirdo. That’s one of the best things about being a sports fan—the other fans are always there to normalize your crazy. “My foster dad was obsessed with the game. We used to drive all over the south, catching minor league games whenever he could get time off work. We even saw your brother play once before he joined the Hucksters.”
“That’s so cool,” Grammercy says, his smile widening. “And rare down here. When I first started playing as a kid, half my fifth-grade class had no idea what ice hockey even was. They thought I was making it up.”
“Well, not super surprising given the Louisiana heat, but Papa Jim was raised in Minnesota. He grew up playing on frozen lakes and community rinks and watched every game on TV. He taught me to love the game, especially the old-school style.” My brows drift up. “He had a lot to say about faking injuries to draw a penalty or running down the clock when the team’s already ahead. Nothing pissed him off more than a pansy-ass game.”
Grammercy laughs, a rich sound that fills the car and makes my lips tingle. “Sounds like my kind of man.”
“He was the best,” I agree, hesitating only a beat before adding, “He would have loved your game. If he were still around.”
Grammercy sobers, and I immediately regret bringing down the vibe. Again. Between my rough childhood, dead foster parents, and sick kid, I’m well aware that my life skirts a little too close to “gothic tragedy” for a lot of folks. I’ve had more than a few people learn my backstory and decide to steer clear of me altogether.
There’s a certain segment of thepopulation that believes misery is catching. Or that you must have done something todeserveyour hard road, either in this life or the last one.
But somehow, I know Grammercy isn’t like that, even before he says, “I’m sure he’s still around. In his way. I don’t think the people we love are ever gone for good. Not when we carry all the memories we made with them and aren’t shy about sharing them.”
