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“Are you okay?” His voice is void of sarcasm, but that does nothing to curb my contempt.

“About the puppy? I’m good. I’m not much of an animal person anyway, a fun fact you didn’t know about your ex-wife.”

“I didn’t fucking mean that,” he rasps out, his voice scratchy as though he just woke up.

“Well, you were right about some of it, so feel free to congratulate yourself.”

“Natalie . . . I’m sorry.”

“I’ve already forgiven you, and I did it forme. Anything else?”

“I’m in Austin.”

“Yeah? Good for you. Go to Sam’s on 12thstreet, amazing barbecue.”

“Can I see you?”

“No thanks. I barely survived the last scathing interaction.” Heart pounding, I tilt my head and type gibberish on my board to make myself look busy while feeling the prodding blue eyes across the pit.

Not again. Nope. Nope. Nope.

“You’re a stain.”

Easton made every imaginable headline professionally for weeks following the Super Bowl. His sales skyrocketed along with the simultaneous hunger for his picture and any personal information. His half-time performance blasted him into the stratosphere, quadrupling his already impressive sales and putting all twelve of his singles on the Billboard, numbering one through twelve. Personally, he disappeared, not a single picture of him surfacing. Not only has Easton’s success become ceaseless in media chatter, but the Sergeants’ performance was rated by many as one of the top ten half-time shows in NFL history. Even so, Easton seems to have exiled himself from the spotlight.

“Let me come to you,” he says. “I want to apologize in person.”

“No!” I blurt as several sets of eyes fly my way. “No,” I repeat, lowering my voice. “It’s not a good idea, and you know it’s not. Listen to me . . . you’re okay, you’re better than okay, and I’m going to be okay, and I need you to respect that. I’m happy for you, I really am, and I’ll accept your apology now, but please don’t call me again. There’s nothing more to say. I wish you well.”

I hang up the phone and stare at it, just as the line instantly lights up with another incoming call. The gravity of what I just did begins to hit as I try not to let the burn singe too much of me.

He didn’t call. You imagined it.

The lines continue to explode, and my phone texts tick up in numbers—no doubt Holly and Damon attempting to check on me.

I send them a group text to assure them I’m okay, and they both instantly start an emotional welfare check interrogation.

“Damnit,” I mutter, hanging my head. Dad’s right. I need to try to avoid this circus for at least a few days until some of the storm blows over. Grabbing my laptop, I walk across the pit. Employees eyes follow me as I command my heart to slow.

He didn’t just call. You imagined it. He’s not in Austin.

I knock on Dad’s doorframe, and he immediately puts his call on hold, kicking back in his leather chair while squeezing his stress ball.

“What’s up?” He eyes my laptop.

“You’re right. I’m going to go. I’ll work from home for the next few days. I’m so sorry, Daddy.”

“Look at me,” he commands, and I do. “Do I look upset? This isn’t on you.” I can feel his aggravation for me in his posture, but see nothing but love in his eyes.

“Thank you. Love you.”

“You too. Come home if you want.”

“I may ride Percy later on. I’ll let you know.”

With that, I hurriedly make my way to the back exit of the building. The minute I step out, I’m blinded by the Texas sun while my name is shouted from a block away by a voice I don’t recognize. They’re already here.

“Shit.”

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