God, look at me. I’m thinking just like him.
“Maybe he wanted to find a woman who appreciated him for who he is, not what he does,” Sarah suggests.
We all go quiet. Especially me.
“I’m sure he meets plenty of women, but they all just want him because of his fame, or his money, or because of what he does for a living. And I bet that gets old,” Sarah further explains. “Maybe he went on that Rate a Date app to find a woman he can connect with on a real level.”
“What a bunch of horseshit,” Amelia starts, but I send her a look, silencing her.
“Go on,” I encourage Sarah.
She sits up straighter, and I can tell she’s getting into it. I like the direction she’s taking. But could it be true? Or is it just me being hopeful?
“There was nothing about professional football mentioned on his profile, right?” she asks.
I shake my head. “Not at all.”
“And he never brought up anything related to football when you guys talked?”
“Never. I practically had to pry it out of him that he works with professional athletes,” I say.
“That’s not necessarily a lie,” Sarah starts.
“Oh, give me a break. Stop making excuses for this guy. He’s a total douche, leading you on like this and not being truthful,” Amelia says, sounding thoroughly disgusted. Her nose is wrinkled and her eyes are narrowed, like she just smelled something bad. She’s pretty in an understated, elegant way. She comes from money, unlike some of us. She works at her family’s jewelry store, and hopes to run it someday, though her father is bit of a tyrant. Oh, and sexist.
“What else could he be lying about?” Kelsey asks.
All the things they’re saying are swirling in my head, making me confused. The beer is too. “I should go home,” I say.
“I’ll drive you home,” Sarah suggests.
“But my car is still here,” I protest.
“It’s fine. Just leave it here. I’ll pick you up tomorrow and take you to work,” she says, like the good friend she is.
“Okay.” I give in easily, because first, I don’t want to get a DUI, and second, I don’t want to drive home alone.
It’ll be nice to have Sarah with me, at least for a little while longer.
We leave Milligan’s and I ride home in Sarah’s car, both of us pretty much silent the entire ride.
“The rehearsal dinner is tomorrow,” I say at one point.
“I know.” Sarah hesitates. “Are you going to talk to him tonight?”
“I have to.”
“Are you going to be okay?”
“No, but eventually I will be,” I say morosely, staring out the window. This is not how I thought this weekend would play out. I’m going to be a sad bridesmaid instead of an on-top-of-the-world bridesmaid. I’m the romantic of the group, remember? I believe in true love and heart eyes and passion.
I was ready to throw myself into the wedding festivities with everything I’ve got. I was going to embrace the notion of love and celebrate Alex and Caroline. I have always firmly believed there’s someone for everyone, and thought I might’ve found my someone.
It sucks to find out he’s someone else.
Twenty-Three
Mitch
I’m going out of my mind tonight, trying to get Eleanor to talk to me via text. But she won’t. Not really. She’s not very responsive, and she keeps me hanging for twenty, thirty minutes at a time before she finally says something. And when that happens, it’s usually just one- or two-word sentences. At one point she tells me she’s at a bar having a couple of beers with her friends, and I know the wedding is getting closer, but why is she at a bar, drinking beer?
That doesn’t sound like my Eleanor.
Of course, do I really know her that well? In the sexual sense, hell yeah. But in other ways?
Not yet.
Finally, my phone rings, and her face lights up my screen. I snapped that photo Sunday night, right before she got on her knees and gave me a BJ. There’s a glow in her eyes that she only seems to aim right at me, and the smile stretching her peach-colored lips is so bright. So beautiful.
Just seeing this photo makes my entire body ache with wanting her.
“Hey,” I greet her when I answer.
“Hi,” she says glumly.
Unease settles over me, making me sit up straighter. “You all right?”
“No. As a matter of fact, I’m not.”
Fear has circled around my heart, gripping it in a stranglehold. “What’s wrong?”
There’s a hesitation there. I can hear her breathe, and it sounds shaky.
Fuck. This can’t be good.
“I know who you are. Or more like what you do.”
I’m silent. She’s silent. My heart is racing. The blood is roaring in my ears. I actually feel a little faint. This is the moment I’ve been dreading, and it is happening.
Right now.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asks when I still haven’t said anything. “I wouldn’t care what you do. But you kept it from me. Why?”
“I—” I clear my throat, hating how scratchy my voice is. “I didn’t want you to know at first.”
“Why the hell not?”
I wince at her tone. She is super pissed. Not that I can blame her. “I just wanted to get to know a woman without all the shit that comes with me being who I really am, and what I do. I’m not that guy, Eleanor. I never really was.”
“What do you mean?”
“The arrogant football player. The guy who goes out with his friends and spends money and gets with all sorts of women and does whatever the fuck he wants.”
Wait a minute. This all feels like a lie. A denial. And that is the very last tactic I want to take with Eleanor. I need to be one hundred percent truthful with her.
“I guess I was that guy.” Yeah, I really can’t deny it, all the evidence is out there on the internet. “But I’m not that guy anymore. I haven’t wanted to be him in a long time. I was trying to find something real.”
“Real? You wanted something real, yet you built it all on top of a lie?”
She has a valid point.
“I didn’t know how to tell you.” There. That’s also the truth. “I got in too deep, and I couldn’t figure out what to say next.”
“So you built a lie on top of a lie then.” She sighs, the sound full of so much disappointment. I swear to God I just felt my heart crack wide open. “I gave you my trust, Mitch. I thought what we had was special.”
Her using the past tense about what we had is freaking me out. “It is special, Eleanor. You mean a lot to me. Our weekend was—everything. Our talks every night, they get me through the next day.”
“Right. The next day when you’re out on the football field and conducting interviews on ESPN or whatever the hell,” she says snottily.
My heart drops. Did she see me on ESPN?
“Yes, I saw you,” she says, confirming my internal question. “My friend found you on the internet. I told her your first and last name, and she looked you up. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner. I guess I’m just too trusting.”