Page 92 of Play Fake
“Good morning,” he says, and I smile as I look at him and the baby and think about the sweet little life we’ve created here.
If only that feeling could last a little longer.
The next night, he’s back at his VIP lounge until three in the morning again. And the morning after that, more pictures emerge of him rubbing…elbowswith big-name celebrities, mostly women and all with rather large…assets.
I’m not jealous. I’m not jealous. I’m not jealous.
I’m not jealous my husband has gorgeous women pressed up against him for the entire world to see.
Oh, hell. Who am I trying to fool? Of course I’m jealous. He’s out doing what he calls “work,” and I’m home alone with the baby. That’s my work since he’s paying me to do it, but it’s starting to feel strange to act like his wife on one hand and be a nanny on the other. Either I’m a stepmother or a nanny, but I’m riding this strange line where I’m both.
And I don’t know what to do about it. I don’t know if there’s anything Icando other than ride it out. I signed a contract, and this is what I agreed to. I guess I need to figure out my end goal.
Do I want to go to this lounge with him—a lounge he hasn’t actually invited me to—and act like his wife? Yes. I’d love to.
But I also love being with Jack. I love raising him, and hearing his sweet baby giggles, and taking care of him. And talking about any of this with Dex—that whole open communication thing we talked about—feels like I’d just be complaining even if that’s not the place it’s coming from.
What if Dex and I are meant to make it the distance? Will he always just assume I’ll be the one to shoulder the majority of the responsibilities with Jack since that’s how it started for us?
That’s not what I want out of a husband. I want to split responsibilities. I realize that’s harder when he’s in season, but I’d love more of hearing him tell Jack to let me sleep in through the baby monitor and less of the apologies every Wednesday morning before he heads out the door to another day of practice.
I finally get the nerve to bring it up on a Monday afternoon.
It’s the week before the first regular game of the season, an away game for the Vegas Aces, and he has both Monday and Tuesday off this week with a little bit of homework. He’s studying something on his iPad when I walk into the family room after I get Jack down for his nap.
“Can we talk?” I ask.
He doesn’t respond right away, instead looking down at his tablet, but he glances up a moment later. “What’s going on?”
“I’ve been struggling with some things, and in the interest of open communication, I wanted to talk to you about them.”
His brows pinch together. “Is everything okay?”
I nod. “Yeah, it’s just…I don’t like seeing the pictures every Wednesday morning of you with these other women at your lounge when we’re supposed to be married.”
“Then don’t look at them.” He says it simply, but to me, it’s anything but simple. He lifts a shoulder.
“You look like you want to be with them.”
“I don’t,” he says, and I want to believe him. “It’s just part of running this thing for my dad. They’re big spenders, and I’m trying to get them to spend. That’s all. You know who I’m coming home to.”
“Yeah, buttheydon’t,” I point out.
“So?”
“So if the whole point of this fake marriage was so I have my big revenge when I head to the reunion in a couple weeks, what good is it when my husband is constantly being photographed with other women?” I ask.
He presses his lips together. “So what do you want?”
“I want to come with you to the lounge. Let it be me you’re photographed with.”
I spot something that flashes in his eyes, but it comes and goes so quickly that I can’t quite put my finger on what it was.
“What about Jack?” he asks.
“You always manage to find someone to watch him when we need it. What if it was a charity event instead of the lounge? Wouldn’t you find a way then?”
“Yeah,” he mutters.
