Page 82 of Curveball
“Yeah, you can stop selling it.”
“I’m not selling anything, I’m explaining.”
“I want to know how we’re explaining it to our kids.”
With my other eye complete, I climb down from the counter.
“Are you all packed?”
He moves into the bedroom and collects his clothes.
“What’s to explain? They’re going to love it.”
Well, they probably won’t hate it, but they’ve both been raised as the only child in the house. At the very least, it will be interesting.
“Dylan will,” I concede. “A built-in baseball field and an on-call pitching coach? You better be ready for that, by the way. There’ll be no pulling him out of the clouds.”
“Natalie, too. She already thinks you’re cooler than me.”
Max was a good sport about my makeup and hair products laid out on the counter all weekend. I pack it back up in its zipper bag while he zips his carry-on and gives his tie a tug that seems like a nervous gesture.
“That’s because I am,” I tell him. “She lets me saydope.”
He tosses the pillows against the headboard with a full-bellied laugh.
“See! You’re just proving my point.”
“Just stating a fact.” My carry-on is open on the luggage rack, so I traipse across the room to add my makeup bag. “And I want to pick out my own car.”
Max waves me away when my carry-on won’t zip. Why are they always harder to close for the trip home?
“We’ll talk about it,” he tenuously agrees. My bag thuds when he drops it to the floor, and I take the handle from him.
“Thanks,” I murmur as I roll it toward the rest of our luggage. It seems heavier than before. Then, I remember we were talking about cars. Specifically,mynew car. “I think we need boundaries, and that seems like a good place to start.”
There’s a knock at the door.
“Jesus, you already sound like a wife,” Max teases as he moves to open it.
I want to preen.Wife.
But my conscience is a snarky bitch today, and cuts in, ticking off the reasons this is areally bad idea,andboundariesis only the top of her list.Exposureis in there somewhere, too, along withgold-digger,and a couple other issues I’ve been avoiding. Do I just sweep those worries away and hope the haters don’t come after me?
Max lets in the bellman with a rolling cart. I’m sure they’re trained not to judge the amount of luggage—we’ve got a pile for this weekend trip—but there’s definite side-eye happening. Max just pats him on the shoulder and shakes his head, as if he can’t believe what he’s looking at.
“My fiancée’s really something, am I right? I couldn’t believe this was all she brought either.”
The guy just gives him a crooked grin, and Max leaves him to it and comes to stand beside me. I take his hand and lock our fingers. How did I ever think of him as a surly adversary?
“Really something, huh? So, you still want to marry me?” I ask in a quiet voice while the bellman muscles our suitcases onto the cart.
“You’re damn right I do,” he replies decisively, eyes trained on me. When the bellman’s done, Max moves to hold open the door, and hands him a tip as he passes through. “And it’s happening fucking tomorrow.”
We follow the guy out, the slamming of the door echoing in the hallway, along with Max’s laughter. My lingering doubts evaporate.
Before we’re even at the elevator, I pull out my phone to send
Alejandro an answering text—short and sweet, and total bullshit.
