Page 13 of The Brickwall and the Bombshell

Waving my hand in the air, I nod, even though she can’t see me. “Yeah, and she’s going to pay her part until I find someone else, but the hard part is that all of my friends are either married, getting married, or have a dick.”

Sophie laughs and I join her, grateful for the mundane conversation relaxing the tension in my chest.

“How about someone from work?” Sophie asks. My face scrunches at her suggestion and before I can say anything, she laughs. “Never mind, forget I said that.”

And that’s why Sophie Callahan is my best friend. She knows me better than anyone, sometimes even better than I know myself. She nurtures me like a mother, cares about me like a sister, and listens better than any therapist ever could.

“It’ll work itself out,” I tell her, not wanting her to worry. “Will you be at the game tonight?”

Now it’s Sophie’s turn to sigh. “That’s the other reason I was calling. The kiddos are under the weather. I think it’s just a summer cold, but I want them to get all the rest they need before we start back to school, so we’re staying in tonight.”

“Oh, dang. Sorry they’re sick. Give them an extra cuddle from me.”

“I also wanted to see if you’d mind coming over and hanging out on Monday night after the game instead of us going to Lagniappe. The guys are wanting an impromptu cook-out that night and I didn’t have the heart to tell Owen no. But if you’re not okay with it, I could get everything ready and still meet you. It’s okay, whatever you want to do.”

Smiling as I cross the street toward my building, I shake my head at my best friend who is always trying to make everyone happy. “It’s fine, Soph. A cook-out sounds good.”

“I know you’re around these guys all the time now, so if you don’t want to—”

“I’m always happy to come over and hang out with you,” I assure her.

“We don’t even have to mingle with those sweaty meatballs,” Sophie says with a chuckle. “We can take a bottle of wine and sit by the pool.”

The last time we all were over at Sophie and Owen’s, those sweaty meatballs took over the damn pool, launching themselves cannonball style, but I let her have her dream. “Sounds like a plan.”

An hour later, I’ve refreshed my makeup, pulled my hair back in a low ponytail, and I’m headed to the stadium to pick up my parking pass and get ready for tonight’s game. When I go to open my car door, I notice a small piece of paper stuck to the driver’s side window.

It’s square and innocuous, but my stomach still drops.

Shaking my head at my ridiculousness, I open the door and toss my bag inside, but once I’m in the car, I open the folded piece of paper. All that’s written is the wordgratitudewith a circle drawn around it and a harsh slash across the word.

Totally innocuous, right?

Except, it doesn’t feel that way.

This, paired with the email that’s now branded on my brain, feels too coincidental.

Glancing around, I only see a few familiar cars parked in the lot and no one else in sight.

It’s nothing.

Tucking the piece of paper into my bag, I start my car.

With one last look around the parking lot, I drive out onto the street, but I only make it a block or two before the silence in the car is too much. All I can hear are my loud thoughts.

Unable to stand it any longer, I turn on the radio and use the rest of my drive to the stadium as my own personal concert—belting out the words to a Taylor Swift song.

You can do this, Greer.

It’s nothing.

You’re fine.

When I arrive at the field, I’m still feeling a little rattled, but less so after I sang to the top of my lungs for a few blocks. I swear Anti-Hero was written about my ex, which makes it very therapeutic to sing along to, especially at high volume.

After flashing my press badge to the necessary personnel, I find myself on the field where the Revelers are scattered about, doing various drills.

“You look a little lost, Reporter.”

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