Doing it in public is one thing, but pretending to Nova is a different kind of hard.
“Wait here a second,” I tell the driver as the vehicle comes to a smooth stop.
“Everything okay, Mr. Wade?”
I don’t answer.
I love Nova and I used to anticipate seeing her at the end of the day. Now I’m not sure I remember how to look forward to anything.
It’s like I’m separated from the world by a glass wall.
There are little bottles of alcohol lining the shelves in the mini fridge, and I grab one.
“Mr. Wade, I hate to ask, but could I get an autograph? It’s for my son.”
The hope in his voice makes me pause. I set the bottle back on the shelf and take the hat and marker he passes through.
When I get out of the car, I drag my feet up the driveway and hit the entry code for the house.
Lights are on in the living room. I’m heading for the bathroom when I see the door to her studio is ajar.
Inside, Nova’s painting at her easel. Soft music streams from a Bluetooth speaker in one corner.
Her hair is blonde, streaked blonder from the sun, and twisted into a messy knot on her head. There’s none of the pink left, and I try to remember when that happened.
Her gray cotton dress reaches her knees. Bare legs and feet are tanned from a summer outside.
Nova’s focused on her easel, but she’s swaying too.
I imagine her eyes lifting to mine, grabbing me in that way she has.
Me crossing to her.
Turning her in my arms, carrying her to the wall, and pinning her there.
Her legs go around my waist. She reaches for my belt, unfastening it and my pants. We get them off, and I press between her legs, sliding in all the way. Her back arches as she moans softly.
Neither of us says a word.
For a moment, it’s everything.
For a moment, it’s enough.
As if feeling my attention, her eyes lift from the easel. “Hi.”
I blink from the doorway. “Surprised you’re up.”
“I couldn’t sleep.” She stretches her arms overhead, revealing spots of paint on her arms and neck.
Around us are canvases everywhere, mostly images of dancers.
“You don’t do basketball anymore,” I notice.
“That makes two of us.” My body stiffens, and her eyes widen at the same time. “Sorry. I just mean that it’s September and we have no idea what you’re doing next year. Where you’re playing or—”
“I’ll figure it out.” My voice is rougher than I intend, but it feels as disconnected from me as every other part of my body.
“How was the tournament?”
“We raised a lot of money.” I feel empty. “How was barre class?” I ask, pushing to remember her schedule.
“Good. I made friends who invited us to a party this weekend. Want to go?” she asks.
A party.
I just spent all day acting around other people. But she wants to—I can tell.
“Yeah, sure.”
She looks as though she wants to say more but doesn’t.
“The limo drove through one of the gardens,” I go on finally.
Her face screws up. “The daisies?”
“Maybe.” I lift a shoulder. “Good night.”
“Night.”
Halfway out the door, I glance back…
But she’s already painting again.
7
NOVA
“Can you get Tyler Adams to sign my tits?” Brooke demands through the speakerphone.
“His wife invited me. That would be awkward.” I dust powder on my cheeks in the bathroom. “Besides, how would I even do that?”
“You’re right. Get him to sign your tits and send me a picture.”
“Not happening,” Clay says as he walks past the door, buttoning his shirt.
My lips curve as I stare after him.
It’s the first time I’ve heard him make a joke in days.
Weeks?
Since we arrived in LA, things haven’t been the same between us. Clay tried to tell me they wouldn’t be, but I was convinced I could make this place a home for us.
Somehow the harder I tried, the more distant he became.
LA winning the championship only seemed to push him further beneath water. He withdrew, going from quiet to resigned and grumpy to disconnected.
He’s been down since the season ended. I wish he’d get a therapist, but since we moved to LA, he hasn’t found one in state.
Maybe I’ve been going about it the wrong ways, trying to keep him connected to his old friends and teammates.
Maybe what we’ve needed is to make new friends together.
“Also, I saw your sister going for lunch with Chloe yesterday,” Brooke continues, bringing me back. “She looked round and happy.”
“Perfect. I’m still hoping I can make it there in time for the birth.”
“When’s she due?”
“Two weeks.”
“You better get moving,” Brooke warns. “She looked ready to pop.”
I hang up with my friend, put my makeup away and fluff my hair.
Half an hour later, we’re parking on a lush, curved street in the Hills.
“Hey,” I say to Clay when I grab my purse and shift out, “if anyone asks about your plans for next year, what should I say?”
He stiffens slightly it’s almost imperceptible. “Same as always. Nothing’s finalized.”
I want it to be finalized for us. Still, Clay told me he’d called his agent back. I feel as though things are getting better and we might be turning a corner.
Now we’re walking up the pathway to the huge white house surrounded by a high hedge of green.
Clay’s wearing jeans, a white polo, and Jordans, his tattoos mellow against his tan skin. He looks every bit the Californian. I’m in a white sundress and wedge sandals, and I styled my hair in waves.
Music drifts from the back of the house or the inside—or both. Clay takes my hand and leads the way.
When we get to the front door, Annie’s already there, her arms wide. “Nova! You’re here!”
She looks effortlessly cool in a gray knit strapless dress that skims her body, gathered high on one hip and brushing her toes on the other side.
“Barre girl!” The blonde, Elle, shouts from inside.
“Welcome.” If Annie’s intimidated by the enormous guy that is my boyfriend, she doesn’t show it. “Tyler’s around here somewhere.”
We follow her inside, where a few dozen people are already mingling, a few dancing, everyone with a drink in their hand. Annie cuts through the crowd to a dark-haired guy in a Henley. Her hand rests on his shoulder, and she murmurs something in his ear.
He looks over, dark eyes piercing both of us.
“Don’t even think about the tits thing.” Clay’s hand tightens on my waist.
Annie motions us over and introduces her husband, Tyler.
“Rose is staying with my dad and stepmom tonight, so it’s only adults. God, do I need a night of only adults.” Annie’s laughter sounds like tinkling bells at a holiday concert. “Can I get you both a drink?”
We agree, and she retrieves a beer for Clay and a spritzer for me. We talk with Tyler and Annie, and they introduce us to a few more friends: a reality-TV star, a British entertainment magnate; his wife, who’s a world-renowned DJ; and his brother, who’s a professional soccer player. Ash—the soccer player—and Clay get started on the difference between pro sports in the UK and the US.