Page 102 of Not Just a Trick Play

I scroll into the next photo and am startled. I squint. That’s not even me as a child. The hair color isn’t close at all. Whoever is posting this rubbish isn’t any top-caliber journalist. I see nothing from theNew York Times. Something to be grateful for, yes? Because right now, I’m looking for silver linings.

I’m still staring up at the ceiling when my phone pings.

JCunningham

At the airport. Talk before I leave?

I might start sobbing if I hear his voice and can’t let him worry. My thumbs hover over the keyboard, and I type out the safest message I can muster.

Me

Currently marinating in the bath.

A beat. Then another. As if he knows I’m making up excuses.

JCunningham

Are you sure you don’t want me to get you a flight to the game?

Me

I promise I’ll watch it on TV. Good luck.

Friday.

It’s still pouring outside, each drop a thundering echo of the never-ending storm of gossip. My phone lights up with one salacious headline after another, only to dim just to be replaced by more. I don’t know why I subject myself to this torment. It’s a masochistic cycle I can’t seem to break, like some twisted modern version of penance where I whip myself with Wi-Fi instead of willow branches.

What am I doing about the flat? Is it too late to beg for another job with the Titans?

I miss Jake. More than I thought possible. He’s been at away games before, of course, but this time feels different. Now, without even those short stolen moments during the day, or those conspiratorial smirks meant just for me, his absence is a physical ache. I long for him to envelop me in his arms, tell me everything will work out. It’s so utterly unlike me to crave this support, when I’ve always been able to get by on my “buck up and get on with it” attitude, the very British keep calm and carry on. Well, I’m not calm, and I’m not carrying on, figuratively or otherwise.

Yvonne, Jeanine, and the rest of the Cunningham crew have been blowing up my phone. They’ve seen the posts, and Yvonne even offered to stay with me. I didn’t let her. I default to my “It’s fine.” It’s anything but.

In an attempt to find some semblance of normalcy, I wash already-clean dishes and turn onSurvivor, muted in the background. There’s something oddly comforting, watching people outwit, outplay, and outlast, even if I can’t hear their triumphs or their tribulations. It’s the survival of the fittest, and right now, I feel anything but fit.

My phone rings and I ignore it. It’s probably another reporter. They’ve somehow discovered my number and have been texting and calling nonstop, rendering my device practically useless.

But what if it’s Jake?

Heart pounding, I grab it. But at the name on the screen, my stomach drops. It’s Gran.

For a moment, I’m tempted not to answer. But what if something’s wrong? “Hello.”

“Amelia.”

“Gran.”

“I have some news, and I thought it best you hear it from me.” Almost clinically, she goes on, “As you know, I’m getting on in years. It’s time I retired. I was waiting until you returned to tell you. But then you rang and told me of your decision to stay in New York. It was make other arrangements or continue to work. And I’m old. And tired. Your Aunt Elizabeth lost her husband last year and has suggested I move to Sutton Bridge and live with her.”

Guilt hits me. What did I expect? That Gran would run the place indefinitely? How naïve had I been?

“And the inn?” I ask, barely above a whisper.

“I had always meant for you to take over.”

The guilt inside me deepens, but then she adds, “As such, I’ve had to make new arrangements,” she continues. “I’m considering giving the running of the inn to Benjamin and Margo. Permanently.”

The world is out of air. I shouldn’t be shocked, but I still am. My mind’s going a million miles over each sluggish second.

---