Page 58 of Sideline Play

“SHUSH! Let me live in my delusion that you love me just as much as Ro. Now flip the camera so I can see my options. You have a date to get to and I have a lady friend waiting to be reacquainted with me and Jacob’s Ladder.”

Standing up, I flip the camera as he demanded and begin spreading out all my clothes on the bed, saying, “I for sure want a dress, maybe a skirt. I think they’re his favorite.”

“Scarlet, he’s a man. Anything that allows his hands and dick easy access is gonna be a favorite. Hence the potato sack. Easy access and no guilt over shredding it.”

“Oh my God,” I groan, rolling my eyes. “Just shut up and help me pick.”

“Fine, but after this we’re finding you a friend.”

Turning my phone back around, I reply in exasperation, “Well if Roman would stop being such a slut and like someone for more than a night or two, I could draft her into friendship under the sister clause.”

Raising his hand in surrender, chocolate eyes sparkling with mischief, Reeves says, “So long as you aren’t trying to set me up. I plan to ride my slut days out until I’m at least thirty.”

“Ugh,” I gag. “And Ro wonders why I count Remi’s age as a massive bonus. Now hurry up. I have like ten minutes until I’m late,” I rush.

“Wear the skirt.”

“Reeves, I need a lot more to go off of than, ‘the skirt.’”

“The poofy one with all the layers. You know, the one that looks like it was made from a wedding dress.”

Knowing exactly which of my tulle skirts he’s talking about, I drop my phone on the bed and run to the closet to pull it, shouting, “Yes!” as I begin to rummage through my tops for the perfect mate. “You’re a genius, Reeves-e’s. Thank you!”

“Tell me something I don’t know, Sugar! Now put that with that sweater-thing that only covers your tits and wraps all around and ties in the back like a damn present.”

Coming back to pick up my phone, I kiss the screen and thank him, “You’re a lifesaver, Reeves.”

“You can thank me bynottelling Ro I helped you pick out your, ‘Please take my virginity, Tate,’ outfit.”

“Done, even though you totally ratted on us.”

“Just doing my job as your brother’s best friend. Have a good time, Scarlet, and USE PROTECTION!”

“Same to you,” I snark, before blowing another kiss and hanging up.

Going over to the dresser, I open up the drawer with my underwear and after shuffling through various shades of pink, pull out the exorbitantly priced, delicate sheer lace set I bought before coming here. The one Roman had accused me of buying with a secret man in mind. While that hadn’t been the case at the time, it certainly becomes that now, its shimmery, soft pink color a perfect match to the blush tint of my tulle skirt.

Slipping my robe off and draping it on the dresser, I step into the thong and then fasten the bra, bending forward once I move the cups to the front, so my breasts fall in and fill out the lace. With the straps adjusted, I go back to the closet for the hundredth time this evening and kneel before my shoes. Under the rack where almost all my heels, flats, and sneakers are lined up is a slate gray box with gold embossing across the lid.

Sliding it out, I take the lid off and fold back the tissue to reveal a satin bag the unworn heels live in. Despite my hyper feminine, high maintenance personality, I was never the little girl who dreamed of her wedding day and all its beautiful details or had Barbie marry Ken in a dozen different pretend ceremonies. I never thought of colors or what song I would dance to with my daddy. Never envisioned my cake or debatedover a DJ or band. I never even thought about what my dress would look like.

But there was a day when we were on the road this summer and I dragged Roman and our dad out to Houston’s Galleria on the off day. And there in the Jimmy Choo window were these heels—a simple pointed toe, a shade of nude that was a perfect match to my skin tone, and a delicate little ankle strap with a large bow on the back. Seeing them, I thought of my wedding for the first time. It was fleeting, barely more than a half formed idea, but it was so clear. For that split second, I saw Remington. I saw him and my heart skipped right after the word husband fluttered through my head. I don’t even know what possessed me to buy them, but after that moment and my dad saying, “Just because we buy them now doesn’t mean you have to wear them. You can always just hold on to them until it’s time,” I had to have them.

So for months they sat in my closet at home unopened and waiting. They almost didn’t even come with me to Gatlinburg. They ended up being a last minute item added to one of my suitcases as Ro was carrying the others downstairs and out to my car for me.

Freeing one from the bag, I hold it up, turning it this way and that, waiting. But nothing comes. Or rather, nothing changes. It still feels right. This feels right. Remington feels right.

Once I have them buckled, I stand up and pull my skirt from the hanger, stepping into it. Then getting the velvet wrap cropped sweater off the shelf, I slip it on, and after adjusting my cleavage, I tie the ends in a bow at my back, a sliver of skin exposed between the sweater’s hem and the skirt’s high waist. My final touches are my gold lariat necklace with tiered rose quartz stones for my dad, Roman, and Winne, my stack of rings that coordinate to each Championship ring my dad has won, the diamond studs Boomer and Marcia gave me on my sixteenthbirthday, a quick fluff of my hair, and a fresh swipe of gloss across my lips, before hastening around the room to tidy my mess.

It’s with my arms full of clothes that Remi knocks on the door and asks, “Scarlet, do you need more time?”

Dropping them back on the bed, I teeter run to the door and yank it open, exhaling, “No, I’m ready. I just?—”

“You look…” he breathes, eyes slowly taking me in from head to toe.

Forcing myself not to pick at the fresh gel lacquer on my nails as I take in his starched jeans, white button down, and the midnight blue sweater he has pulled on over top, I worry, “Is it too much?”

“Baby girl, you could never be too much. And this,” he drawls, voice gravelly as he gestures to me, “this image of you is staying with me until I die.” Steepling his fingers over his nose and covering his mouth, his voice is muffled as he says, “I want to kiss you but I’m afraid of messin’ you up.”

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