Page 40 of Fair Trade
“I don’t know,” Tío Ernesto chimes in. “Something tells me you shouldn’t trust the guy. He comes out of nowhere and has all that money.” He shakes his head once. “Something ain’t right.”
For reasons unbeknownst to me, I find myself feeling the need to defend Nick. “He’s harmless.” I shrug, aiming for nonchalance.
When three pairs of eyes stare back at me expectantly, I continue. “Seriously. I mean, yeah, he’s playing catch-up when it comes to learning about the sport, but he has the business acumen to get things done. And sure, maybe he could ditch the suit every once in a while and spend more time with the players, but he is busy balancing being the owner of a brand-new baseball team with running his own media conglomerate-corporation thingy. I’m sure it doesn’t leave much space on the calendar for free time. Unless you count all those dates he’s—”
Why am I still talking?
“I don’t know. But it seems to me like you’ve got plenty to say about the man,” my dad says with a raised brow.
“I said that part out loud too, didn’t I?” I stare down at my dominoes as if they hold all of life’s answers.
“Uh-huh,” my uncles reply in unison.
“Cuidado mija. That’s all I’m going to say.” I open my mouth to tell my dad there’s nothing to worry about, but he continues. “I know you’re more than capable of holding your own. Trust me, I know. I raised you that way. And sometimes it even bites me inthe ass.” I roll my eyes as he smiles softly. “But be careful. That man is powerful, and I’d hate for him to take advantage of you in any way. Especially after you worked so hard to get to where you are.”
I sigh deeply. “You don’t have to worry. We only communicate unless we absolutely have to. It’s all strictly business. I promise.”
We all focus back on the game, and I try to ignore the biggest lie I’ve ever fed my father.
I’m tucked in bed, watchingThe Real Housewives of Salt Lake Cityon my laptop, when an email notification pops up.
Like clockwork.
Ever since Nick started having these public dates, he’s been emailing me stupid little debriefs.
And I hate how I’ve become dependent on them.
The last sentence before he signs off is always something along those lines.
She was less entertaining than watching paint dry.
Watching her walk in heels was similar to witnessing a baby giraffe’s first steps.
I swear this one tried to steal my wallet.
That last one was my favorite.
Until this current email.
He usually sticks to pointing out silly flaws in his dates. But this last line is the first time he specifically mentions me.
And the emails aren’t only coming after his dates.
Nope. Because Nicholas doesn’t do anything on a small scale.
The barrage of emails are endless ramblings of a man who seriously needs a group chat to pester. But instead, he’s got me.
So far, I’ve learned that he has trouble sleeping since he is managing businesses in two time zones, he has regular Sunday dinners with Daisy in which he cooks, and he’s a big baby when he gets a cold.
The rest of the information is nonsensical, yet I’ve stored every detail away in a tiny box in my brain.
Try as I might to ignore him, I find myself responding to each and every one of his musings and even giving him unimportant details of my life.
I love to cook but don’t bother, since my mother never taught me to cook portion sizes for less than six people, even though we were a family of three. I think I want to get a pet at some point but would need my parents to watch it when I’m on the road with the team. And I prefer heels over flats unless I’m on my period. Then it’s my black running sneakers for comfort and to match my mood.
I still cringe at that last one. I sent it after having two glasses of wine while I was on my period a few weeks ago. I’m grateful that he has never brought it up.
When he started sending me these date debriefs, my go-to response was something like “I don’t care.” Or the more savvy “Don’t you have a woman in your bed waiting to fake an orgasm?”
