My father high-fives Nick as he walks off the field. “You’re my ringer. Your check’ll be in the mail,” my dad jokes as we head toward the team bench near the bleachers. Charlotte waves and smiles. My heart beats faster as I look at her.
Tonight, I tell myself. I’ve got it all planned. I’m taking her to her favorite Italian restaurant in Chelsea, and I’m going to put my heart on the line. I’ll tell her she’s the one and then hope to hell that the woman in the Page Six photo is the one who’s coming to dinner, not the woman who said she’s just my best friend. I have no clue if Charlotte only sees me as a friendly fling, or if she wants more, like I do. But I know how I feel—I want her to be my best friend, my lover, and my partner. I want her to be all mine, and that’s why this morning—after we brushed our teeth, of course—I asked her out on a real date.
She said yes.
The realization that I have an official date tonight with the only woman I’ve ever fallen in love with makes my palms sweat. I’ll be going out on a limb and taking the biggest chance of all when I tell her that faking it led to making it for me. My pulse races with the rabid hope that this isn’t a one-way street.
Hell, she’s holding my keys, wallet and phone in her purse during the game—there’s got to be room for the old ticker, too, right? I break away from Nick, run up the stands, and give Charlotte a quick kiss. Her lips glide across mine, and she sighs softly. In seconds, Ciara’s “Pucker Up” blasts from Emily’s speaker. Damn, that girl is fast.
I head down the bleachers.
Another player from the Katharine’s team steps up to the plate, and my dad cheers him on. Dad’s in a good mood today, not only because we’re winning, but because the papers were signed this morning. His attorney is doing a final review, and filing them with the business authorities on Monday. By then, if all goes well, Charlotte and I will be a real couple, so we won’t even need to break up. Amazing, how everything is coming together perfectly.
As I grab a spot on the bench, Nick speaks to me in a low voice, pretending he’s talking to Charlotte. “Oh hey, Char. How’s it going? You still enjoying dating Spencer? What’s that? You love his big ego. Oh yeah, it’s so huge. I love it, too.” He turns to me, his voice deadpan. “So how am I doing at going along with things?”
I pretend to gaze in wonder. “Amazing. It’s almost as if you make shit up for a living.” Then I drop the snark. “And, incidentally, I’m hoping it won’t be pretend much longer.”
He raises an eyebrow in a question.
I shrug happily and speak quietly. “It was fake. It became real for me. I hope for her, too. I’m going to talk to her tonight and see if she feels the same.”
Nick offers a fist for knocking. “Go for it,” he says, no teasing, no sarcasm now. “You two always seemed right for each other.”
“Yeah? Why?” I ask, eager for corroboration.
But, he laughs and shakes his head. “Dude, what do you think I’m going to say?” He clasps his hands together and bats his eyes, overdoing the hearts and flowers. “Oh, it’s so sweet the way you finish each other’s sentences, and both like gummy bears.” He drops the act and shrugs. “All I know is you’ve got my vote.”
“Thanks, man. I appreciate it.” I pause, then narrow my eyes. “Incidentally, if you ever touch my sister, that’s grounds for me to shave your head in the middle of the night and dye your eyebrows orange.”
His eyes widen and he clutches his locks. “Not the hair. It’s where all my power comes from.”
“Exactly. So, beware.”
We take our spots on the field for the bottom of the ninth, and when the other team doesn’t score, “Raise Your Glass” by P!NK commemorates this Saturday-morning victory. I trot off the field and high-five my teammates.
I slap palms with Mr. Offerman. “This is going to be all yours now,” I joke, gesturing to the team.
“Can’t wait,” he says. “I love it all. I hope you’ll stay on the team, and your friend, too. We’ll need a big bat if we want to win the championship next season.”
Man, it’s a weekend softball league. Chill out.
“I hope you win it all,” I say, staying cordial through the end, as P!NK sings about all the underdogs, and Emily mimes holding a glass to go along with the words of the song. As I stuff my glove and hat into a duffel bag, I glance at Charlotte, who’s getting into the celebration, too, bumping hips with Harper, and it’s pretty cool to see her like this with my sister. It feels like this could be a regular thing—Charlotte hanging out with my family as the woman by my side, not just as my friend. I can picture it all unfolding before me. Days and nights of her. Real instead of fake.
The music stops abruptly, and P!NK’s unbridled enthusiasm for celebrating is replaced by a tinny echo, like when someone cues up a new song with a scratch of a record. But it’s not music that comes from the handheld speaker that Emily clutches.
It’s voices.
Or, rather, my voice.
“Are you not feeling well? Do you have a headache from last night or something?”
I freeze.
My blood rushes cold, as the memory of when I’d said those words slams into me with stark clarity—in the bathroom with Charlotte at MoMA. My jaw clenches and my chest seizes up, because I know what’s next. My eyes search the crowd that gathers near home plate. It’s sparse, but all the key players are here. The Offerman clan. My parents. Me. Like statues, listening to Emily’s recording of my private conversation with Charlotte.