Page 50 of The Bodyguard Affair
“Why is that?”
“In my treatment program, my therapist talked to me about how I was using men as a way to fill the void.”
“Void?”
“The one your grandfather left. I was looking for love to replace my father’s love, and my mother’s.” I don’t know much about my grandparents, aside from the fact that he left early on in her childhood. I’ve always known that as a fact, but for the first time, it occurs to me that she didn’t have things easy growing up, either. How could she be expected to be a good parent when she didn’t have that herself? “In treatment, I realized the only way to fill that void is by finally loving myself. By taking care of myself and being pickier about who I date.”
“Wow. That’s really great, Mom,” I say, though it sounds alittle weak coming out of my mouth. I hadn’t realized the extent of her therapy or that she’d worked that deeply on herself. “You deserve to be pickier.”
“Turns out, when you’re sober, men are terrible.”
I laugh, despite the pang of sadness at the fact that she never found anyone to settle down with. “You deserve someone good,” I tell her, and I mean that.
She smiles. “You think? By the time you get to my age, all these men want are wives to cook and clean for them while they’re out playing golf all day.”
“Maybe you’ll meet someone at Lakeside,” I say, finally broaching the topic.
“That would be nice. Though I hear dating can get competitive in these places. Honestly, I’m just happy to be going there instead of that other place. There’s a beautiful waterfront trail I can take my morning walks on. They have so many activities, too. I think I’ll be just fine on my own.”
“Then why are you so adamant about me settling down?”
She stops walking and appraises me. “You and I are very different. I spent my whole life chasing after love, after terrible men, desperate for their approval, trying to be what they wanted. But you’ve spent your whole life running from love.”
Her words strike me hard in the chest. My first instinct is to deny it, because that’s what I do when it comes to anything she says about me. I’ve always deduced that she doesn’t know me. But maybe she knows me more than I thought.
We walk the rest of the block in a comfortable silence. As we pass by a field of wildflowers, I spot a group of daisies and stop to gather some, handing a bunch to Mom. Her eyes light up.
“You used to pick me daisies when you were a little boy,” shesays, a massive smile splitting her face. “Remember that day we spent at Dow’s Lake?”
I nod, vaguely remembering it. I think I was about seven. I’d faked sick that day because Mom was home and I wanted to spend extra time together, just me and her. She took me to the park and we lay out in the grass on a giant picnic blanket. She’d brought snacks, and we looked at shapes in the clouds.
It was a good day. A really good day.
Maybe not all days with her were as bad as I thought.
Chapter 22
Andi
The stadium is overflowing with patrons double-fisting foamy beers, their voices mixing together with the music in thunderous chatter. It’s a sea of red and black, people dressed in jerseys, faces painted. It’s a fuller stadium than I expected, not that I’ve ever been to a game before to compare.
Eric and Gretchen’s box is center field, boasting a long buffet table filled with food and desserts, as well as its own bar. Even the seats are premium leather. By the time I arrive, it’s filled with people milling about and socializing. They’re mostly senior staffers or Cabinet members, but there are some younger staffers in the mix, who were likely given tickets by their bosses.
The moment I set foot in the box, everyone seems to stop mid-conversation, solely to stare. At me. And while it’s just the box, it might as well be the entire stadium.
Until these rumors, I’ve always been a background character in my own life. Not a side character, or even a tertiary character.And certainly not the main character. Just a faceless, nameless blur of a person blending into the background.
Standing out was something I actively avoided, because that offered a new opportunity for critique. If Dad, Amanda, or I did anything wrong, Mom called it out immediately. That’s her personality trait, to find a flaw in literally anything. Our clothes, hair, grades, the way we spoke or acted in public.
So naturally, I’m a millisecond away from bolting when someone shouts my name. “Andi!”
It’s Nolan. I know his voice instantly. It cuts straight through my nerves, putting me at ease, if only a little. He’s waving at me from a pair of plush seats in the front and center.
My eyes latch on to his like a life raft as I make my way through the crowd. I feel like I’m tiptoeing through an active minefield, putting one foot in front of the other until I make it to the end. To him.
He’s in dark-wash jeans and an off-white waffle crewneck, sleeves pushed up a little to the elbows. Even his dark hair is a little more mussed up than usual. The casual look suits him. I’d like this look spread on a cracker and served to me on a platter, thanks.
As I approach, he gives me a smile that illuminates his whole face, the corners of his eyes crinkling adorably. And then he does something near fatal. It’s not the fact that he stands, moving swiftly to meet me at the end of the aisle. Or that he pulls me into a warm embrace, his fingers drawing little circles into the small of my back. It’s the press of a kiss on my forehead.
