Page 11 of The Check Down

With a pinch to my wrist to clear my mind—a distraction from the knowledge thathewill most likely be there tonight—I turn to focus on the man beside me.

“Is Shane bringing a date tonight?” I ask, extending an olive branch by segueing into Jack’s favorite topic: his job. His boss, the general manager of the Memphis Blues football organization, is a notorious love-’em-and-leave-’em type. Better known as arakein my line of work.

He blows a raspberry, but a corner of his mouth lifts as he answers. “Who knows with him? I thought he was still seeing that blues singer, but he mentioned a Tiffany on Sunday, and I’m pretty certain that other chick’s name is Londa or Linda or something like that.” Jack speaks of Shane’s exploits with pride, the way a besotted mother might brag about a wayward son with a resignedboys-will-be-boystone.

“I really liked the one before the singer. The dental hygienist. Cathy, I believe.”

I fiddle with the lace skirt of my dress as Jack sets his phone to play a sports podcast through the speakers. We listen to strangers ranting or waxing poetic about sports every time we’re in a car together. I used to complain about it, beg him to allow me a turn to choose how to fill the silence on drives, but after his one-thousandth explanation about how it’s important to his job, I gave up trying to compromise.

Jack snorts, the sound derisive. “Cathy was more like three women before the singer, bun.”

I cut my eyes to him, heat simmering inside me at the dig in his statement, even though he softened the blow with his pet name for me.

His silent message is that I’d know that if I attended more of his work functions. He’s frustrated that I’m not a football fanatic who joins him in the owners’ suite for every home game.

I don’t hate sports. But in my home growing up, they were not a focal point. Apart from being a stressed-out member of the high school swim team for two years, I didn’t participate in any in my youth. Whereas Jack’s lived and breathed athletics his whole life.

Where Jack has aspired to be a GM since puberty and spent many, many mornings and evenings on well-maintained sports fields, my childhood Saturdays were spent on overgrown hiking trails or warm, sandy beaches.

We’re silent for the rest of the ride downtown. At the valet stand, we have to practically swim through the muggy evening air before we’re ushered into the cool hotel lobby.

Jack takes my hand and plants a kiss on the back of it before twining his fingers between mine, shocking me so acutely I jolt. I blink rapidly, surveying him, as I attempt to interpret his rare PDA.

Sex. He only touches me like this when he’s anticipating intimacy.

And I can count on one hand the number of times we’ve been intimate in the last few months.

We’re both young professionals dedicated to advancing in our careers. The excuses are typical: too tired, too depleted, too stressed, too busy.

Too unsatisfying.

There’s that, too. At least for me anyway. He gets off every time.

Before we enter the ballroom, he leans in, his warm breath feathering over my cheek. “Try to make some friends tonight, dear.” After a quick squeeze, he releases my hand, freeing him up to greet the important individuals that surround us as soon as we step over the threshold.

His comment hits its mark like a sucker punch to my gut. I let out a shaky breath and fist my hands—an attempt to keep from curling up in the fetal position right here on this lovely ornate carpet? Possibly. Or to prevent myself from decking my boyfriend with a strong right hook that would make my pacifist parents cheer?

Too soon to tell.

My lack of friends here in Memphis is an unhealed scab Jack loves to pick at, and it’s been the source of just about every argument we’ve had since I moved here. It’s not that I don’twantfriends. How could I not? The problem is that I don’t quite fit in here. I can’t relate to the team WAGs or the significant others of the front office staff. And at my job, I’m the lone Millennial slice of cheese in a Boomer and Gen Z sandwich.

Plus, making friends in adulthood can be freaking hard.

Pulling a calming breath deep into my lungs, I unclench my hands and paste on the friendliest smile I can muster as I step closer to Jack, who’s now talking to Shane. He must feel guilty for the jab because he lifts his elbow and offers his arm with a small smile.

I take it and anchor myself to him, much like I’ve done with my whole existence in this city. Jack’s the strong oak, rooted andunmoving, while I’m hanging on to a branch waiting to find earth of my own to plant in.

Conversation and laughter fill the grand ballroom as super fans and members of the Blues organization mingle and pose for selfies. I scan the room, trying in vain not to look too long at the clusters of muscly, athletic guys who stand head and shoulders above everyone else.

Doing my best not to search for a specific tall, muscly guy like I’m in a real-life version ofWhere’s Waldo.

It’s no use. It was ridiculous to even try.

Shane’s voice pulls me from my quest. “Good to see you here with this guy tonight, Brynn.” He tips his Bud Lite my way.

“Thanks, Shane.” I bob my head and peer around him, looking for a Tiffany or a Linda or a Londa, but it appears that he’s flying solo tonight.

An older gentleman sporting a thick mustache steps up to Shane’s side. “Geneva requests your presence for a group picture,” he says with a friendly smile.

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