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My chest tightens as he clamps a hand on my shoulder. “All I’m saying is if this is it, I’m cool with it. So, you be okay with it, too.”

“Shit,” I reply hoarsely, reeling, “I’m good if you are. Just give me a minute to process.”

He nods, and we start walking again. A few steps in, he glances over at me. “It’s been a heavy couple of months.”

“Yeah, it has,” I say, keeping my focus ahead.

“You want to talk about it?”

“No. Not today.”

“You haven’t talked about itat all, son, since I peeled you from the floor of that hotel room.”

“That’s because there’s nothing to talk about. I’m at where I’m at, and I’m dealing with it.”

“Just so you know, you come first.” The last part he quietly delivers in a guilt-ridden tone he’s used a couple times since our standoff. The morning after Mom bitch-slapped her logic into me, literally and figuratively, Dad and I came together like we hadn’t missed a second. When he opened their hotel door in New Orleans the following morning, I didn’t have to say a word. He pulled me to him, and after I choked out my apology, our fight was over. We’ve been inseparable since. Ididmove out into a one-bedroom I treat like a hotel room and as Mom predicted, a storage room, unsure if I’ll ever pass out the second key.

“I know I come first without you ever having to tell me.” I relay with conviction, determined to keep my focus on my family despite the underlying gnawing in my gut, which must be apparent to everyone with the way I’m being goaded and gawked at today. “We’re good, Dad. I know you’re there if I need you.”

“That’s all that matters to me,” he asserts, his voice thick.

Needing a shift in energy, I nudge his shoulder and flash him a grin. “You know, you’re getting to be a sentimental old man.”

“Yeah, well, so fucking be it,” he quips back with a grin while patting his jean pockets in search of his cigarettes.

My spirits continue to war as we round the corner, and Dad comes to an abrupt halt, slapping a protective hand on my stomach just as I look up.

SIXTY-TWO

“Impaled”

Skylar Grey

Natalie

In and out, Natalie.

“Don’t be too hard on yourself. It can get pretty confusing,” the man who introduced himself to me as Donald says while whizzing the golf cart around another curve. Brisk wind lashes my cheeks just as my phone buzzes in my hand.

Tye: Where are you?

Got turned around and retrieved. I’ll be there in a few. I’m so sorry.

Tye: No worries, beautiful. Hurry up!

It’s only been three weeks since Tye approached me at my mother’s annual media party in Dallas and charmed me into giving him my number. Tye was one of a few sought-after Texas-based celebrities invited to attend. It took the better part of two weeks for me to take his advances seriously and consider them, despite his insane schedule. After a lot of thought, I agreed to dinner—a dinner which the paparazzi was made privy to fifteen minutes after we were seated at the restaurant.

They stalked us for the rest of the night, making it impossible for us to retain any semblance of intimacy. Even worse, the media twisted ourmaybe somethingfirst date into some sort of whirlwind fairytale romance. The truth is, I hardly know him. Though I admit, if I’m being forced to try and move on—as my husband seems to be doing—Tye wouldn’t be the worst way to go.

Not only is he easy on the eyes, but he’s also taking his place as one of the most legendary quarterbacks in the NFL. In addition, he’s a businessman, an entrepreneur of sorts, who has big plans beyond leaving a mark in football history. His disarming charisma made it impossible for me to turn him away completely. I battled between head and heart endlessly when he presented himself as a prospect after deciding to entertain the thought of dating again. Reason being? Easton’s headlines.

The hardest-hitting report circulating a month ago with photos of him with a rock goddess named Misty Long, whom he’s collaborated with on a song yet to be released. While Misty’s reps denied they are dating, the pictures the paparazzi managed to get are just as damning as my shots with Jonathan, which were splashed everywhere for weeks after the gala.

The image that haunts me most is a candid of them huddled closely on the beach in Malibu just outside her home. He was smiling at her, the kind of smile that’s hard to earn from him, and the sight of it damn near killed me.

Though Easton’s allowed the media to paint a picture on his behalf, I remain indecisive, thankful Tye has taken the reins. He’s been aggressive and decisive enough for the both of us, a burden I allow him to have as I try to come up with some clarity for a new vision of my future. Not the future my heart remains set on, which I’m mentally trying to dismantle daily.

My parents are, of course, thrilled with the possibility of me dating an NFL player, Dad especially, which is no surprise. While it’s been an out-of-body experience for me, our courting mostly consists of scattered texts and a few late phone calls because dating hasn’tbeen possiblefor us yet. For that, I’ve been thankful.

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