Page 25 of Hot Shot

One fucking phone call. Hell, even a text would do. For two weeks I was in town before the wedding—myfucking wedding—and he could have told me. For two months I’ve been right here, and he could have told me we were fucking married.

Married.

The noise I make is somewhere between a shriek and roar, and I twist the stupid faucet closed. The hand towel is gone—Ughhhgahdammit I fucking hate every man on the entire surface of the fucking goddamn planet—so I dry my hands on the towel next to the shower with unfettered violence, which is a feat considering I’m only drying my hands. The voices floating in from the living room trigger a wrathful sort of antagonism in me, and I have to stop myself from reaching for something to break. I check my reflection again to find my complexion the same shade of that wrath, tightening my ponytail.

Of course he didn’t get rid of them,I think as I exit the bathroom.He thinks I won’t outright kill him if there’s someone in the room. Shows what he knows.

And to think, minutes ago, I was ready to throw caution and my panties to the wind. I guess fate had other plans after all.

My jaw is so tight, my teeth hurt as I march out of his room to find strangers sitting on the couch. They all look a mess. There’s a little girl sitting between a gray-haired couple with the biggest,saddest eyes I’ve ever seen. But my anger is so vivid, it’s electric, crackling across my skin. Nothing really registers.

The adults stand. Wilder looks completely dumbstruck. I barely notice.

Like an asshole, I’m still marching, the smile on my lips terrible, I’m sure.

“Hello!” I say with a manic sort of cheer. “I’m Cassidy—Wilder’swife.” I cut him a murderous look. He’s still stupefied, unfazed by my smartassery.

The look on his face pierces the veil of my madness. Still sweaty and filthy in his baseball uniform, his face is pale, his body preternaturally still outside of the shallow rise and fall of his chest. His hat is in his fist, and his dirty hair is somehow both mashed down and sticking out.

I frown. But before I can ask what’s wrong, the woman reaches out to squeeze my hand, placing her free hand outside mine gently.

“Oh, good. That’ll make this easier.”

My head swivels so I’m looking at her again, confounded. Tears are gathered in the corners of her eyes.

“I’m Patty, and this is Paul. We’re…well, we’re Cricket’s grandparents.”

The little girl in glasses is staring at her shoes as she wiggles her foot, shoelaces twitching. Something is very wrong, though I have no idea what. Instantly, my heart softens, Wilder forgotten.

Almost.

I’m smiling without realizing it as I kneel carefully in front of her. “Hey, Cricket. I’m Cass. It’s nice to meet you.”

Her chin is propped on the top of a ladybug pillow clenched in her arms. She doesn’t meet my eyes. “Hi.”

I glance at Wilder for answers, but he’s staring at Cricket. His Adam’s apple bobs.

“What’s all this about?” I ask the room.

Patty and Paul share a look. “Our daughter recently passed away,” Patty starts as she sits. “She and Wilder were…well…Cricket is Wilder’s daughter.”

Everything slows down. My heart thuds against my sternum. The little girl in front of me is a statue inside that rubber band stretch of time, her face now buried in her pillow. Sitting on my thighs are my tingling hands, foreign, someone else’s.

Wilder meets my eyes.

The blood has drained from his face, his eyes glassy and distant. At some point, he discarded his hat, and his hair, still dirty from the game, sticks up and out around four ruts from his fingers. He looks wrecked. Wrecked, and confused. And my heart breaks a thousand times because I can feel his as if it’s my own.

He just found out too.

“How…how did this happen?” I ask after the truly pregnant silence, then shake my head. “I mean, how did he not know?”

Patty sighs and looks to Cricket, her chin quivering as she rubs the little girl’s back.

In the moment she hesitates, I see the situation a little more clearly—they can’t speak frankly with Cricket there. So I shake my head again, stopping her before she speaks.

“You know what?” I stand, putting on my best nothing-to-see-here smile. “Wilderalwayshas dutch chocolate ice cream in the fridge…” Cricket looks up, and I know I’ve got her. “Want a scoop?”

A ghost of a smile plays on her lips, and when I extend my hand, she only looks at it for a second before taking it. I offer the trio what I hope is a comforting smile over the top of her head and lead her into the kitchen where we can’t hear them.

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