Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 98324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
The second time, though, we get distracted by arguing about why Toronto can’t seem to put together any good defensive pairings. And somehow, we both light our marshmallows on fire.
“I’ve made charcoal,” Eric complains, looking at his blackened marshmallow. “So did you.”
“Ugly, right?” I grab his phone out of his hand and flick the hockey video off the screen. “Let’s take a selfie. Smile!” We pose in the firelight, grinning over our burnt marshmallows.
“Wait! Let me take it,” my brother says, getting out of his chair. He takes Eric’s phone. “Say cheese, losers.”
“CHEESE, LOSERS!” we both shout in unison.
Eric checks the photo and smiles. “We’re going to have to call that contest a draw. You want another glass of wine?”
“Not sure that’s a good idea,” I say with a sigh. “I’m pacing myself—we have two more nights of this debauchery.” The rehearsal dinner is tomorrow night, with the wedding the following evening.
“Coke? Mocktail?”
“I’ll find something over there,” I say, popping up and grabbing his empty glass. “And I’ll grab you a soda, too.”
The wind kicks up as I wait for our drinks. I pull my sweater around my shoulders and stare up at the fast-moving clouds in the darkening sky. Looks like rain, maybe.
When I return to the beach, a volleyball game has started up. I end up seated on a beach chair watching Eric, Maribel, and Theo dominate over some of Theo’s college friends. At least, I think they’re his college friends? It’s odd to be a guest at my brother’s wedding when the person I know best here is Eric.
It’s weird, but it’s also my life story. I’ve always been an outsider in my own family. Just like I’m an outsider on the hockey team, too. I’m there, but I’m dispensable. I’ll never be in the inner circle.
But it’s difficult to care while I’m living out my Top Gun fantasies—Eric’s volleyball prowess is fun to watch. It’s not just me, either. He’s drawn a crowd. I open my phone and take a gratuitous photo of him leaping for the ball. But only one. Okay, two. But nobody’s perfect.
I’m just about to put the phone away when I get a text:
Zoe: OMG you two look so cute in that pic! Hope you’re having a fantastic time!
Darcy: Wait, what?
Zoe: On Eric’s Insta! The marshmallows?
I open the app in a hurry, and there it is—the first photo in my feed. Eric has posted one of the photos of the two of us holding our blackened marshmallows. The firelight is flickering on our smiling faces, and he’s got an arm thrown over my shoulders.
It’s a gorgeous picture, but it makes my stomach drop. We look real together. Not just convincing, but painfully real. His arm fits too perfectly around me, my body curving into his side like it was designed to be there. The firelight catches the genuine laughter in our eyes, the easy tilt of my head toward his shoulder.
It’s a lie so perfect it steals my breath.
As I study the image, a sharp ache spreads through my chest. I zoom in on his face, at the way he’s looking at me instead of the camera. There’s warmth there, affection even. The perfect performance.
Damn him for being so good at this. Damn me for wishing it were more.
A hot flash of anger surges through me. He didn’t even ask before posting it. His thousands of followers will see us like this. But so will his teammates—my coworkers. Our little game suddenly has an audience, and I wasn’t consulted.
I scroll down to read the caption: “ Follow us for more lifestyle tips! #burnttoacrisp #playingwithfire”
Then I glance across the beach to where he’s serving the ball, all strength and grace, completely oblivious to the mess he’s making inside me. My yearning is like a bruise I can’t stop pressing, painful but impossible to ignore.
How stupid am I? I did this to myself. And now his half million followers can see it on my face in high definition.
By the time he’s done winning at volleyball, I’m basically seething. When he comes to stand beside me, I wordlessly hand him his Coke, and he drinks it in three gulps.
“Something wrong?” he asks, because I’m cursed with a fake boyfriend who’s uncommonly perceptive to other people’s emotions.
“Well, yeah. Zoe texted me after you put that photo up on Instagram. So now the whole team probably wonders why the two of us look so cozy on the beach.”
His face falls. “I wasn’t thinking about that. I just thought it was a great picture.”
I look over my shoulder and catch Tessa staring at me from a few yards away. My least favorite person. “This is because you heard what Tessa said earlier. Didn’t you? You must have. When she asked why I’m not in any of your photos?”
“Yup,” he admits as the wind churns his hair like a supermodel’s. “She said, ‘All he cares about is hockey.’”