Page 39 of Hot Shot

But somehow, this is my reality.

I’m still not sure how I got here.

I mean, I gotherebecause I was stupid enough to leave eighteen-year-oldWilderto mail the papers. He offered like he was being chivalrous. Who knew he was planning to stay secretly married to me for ten years instead?

As for today, I didn’t plan on holding hands with him likethis.But he took my hand as we were walking in, clasping it like I was the only thing keeping him from being swept off into the sea. I still can’t pull away, not with every emotion he feels passing into me.

Today, he needs me for something else entirely. And I’m taking that job very seriously.

It’s an easy role to slip into. If I really think about it, I’m enjoying it.

But today’s too sad for thinking.

His big hand around mine, my foot hooked behind his calf, the warmth of his solid body arm to arm, thigh to thigh with mine feels good. It feels too good. I can imagine everything Wilder and I were talking about before everything went to hell: what might have been. And God, I hate myself for fantasizing about it. Because now is not the time. My heart is not in the rightplace. What if I cave? What if I rebound? He doesn’t deserve that.

I’m not sure I can trust myself. Maybe I never could.

And living with him is going to make it really hard to figure out how to be alone.

I’ve spent this week on a strict Fuck You diet, avoiding him at all costs. Easy enough, since I’m so busy trying to find my footing at the school. Overwhelmed doesn’t begin to cut it—I did my student teaching six years ago. So much of my knowledge is lost to time. But Cheryl, the other first grade teacher, is a godsend. If it wasn’t for her, I’d come home crying every day.

As it stands, I’ve only cried once, and it had more to do with my stupid truck breaking down than it did with the rest of it. School. Wilder. Recovering from being left at the altar.

You know. Little things.

The funeral ends, and everyone stands to file out of the church. Wilder’s hand fits neatly in the small of my back as we pass the threshold and into jarring sunshine. Neither of us says much on the way to Ashley’s parents’ house where the wake is.

I’ve done a stellar job avoiding him, despite throwing myself into planning for Cricket. Honestly, it’s been nice to have so much to do—between work and preparing for her to come stay with us, there’s been no time to think about anything but the task at hand. It’s only at night that the tsunami of feelings crashes into me, and by that time I’m usually so exhausted I’m asleep before they can do much damage.

Wilder told the baseball team, so obviously now the whole damn town knows. The people who know the real truth are my mom, his dad, and the inner circle—Remy, Jessa, Shelby, and Tate.

Reactions have ranged in temperature fromshould we call an ambulancetomakes sense. I don’t know which is morealarming, the idea that we come across as batshit insane or that any of this madnessmakes sense.

As far as I’m concerned, we all need our heads checked. Me most of all. But I’ve never felt a calling like I have to protect the sad little girl with the black bow in her hair. At least this way, I can help.

It’s all going to be fine.

Totally fine.

The other day, Wilder dropped off an envelope with Mama containing a key to his house and our marriage certificate in case I need it. Our names on the legal document I thought was null and void was one of the most bizarre things I’ve ever seen. The only thing that tops it is the ring on my left ring finger. It’s simple, a gold band with a fleck of a diamond—but somehow it’s even more perfect than the three carat cushion cut from Davis. Maybe because Wilder gave this to me with his whole entire heart and soul. Davis could only manage half.

The only interactions Wilder and I have had are texting about the things I ordered for Cricket’s room. When I asked about a budget, he said there wasn’t one, which reminded me that he was a simple man with a five-year career with the MLB as a starting pitcher under his belt—and in his bank account.

When he picked me up this morning he told me the DNA paternity results had come back, confirming what we already knew. He was in his head about it through the hour drive to Franklinville, his brows drawn together and eyes on the road, much like he is right now on the drive to Patty and Paul’s house. The street is already lined with cars, but he finds a spot and kills the engine. He doesn’t move to get out. So I don’t either.

I trace the line of his profile as he stares off at nothing, his fists still firmly around the wheel.

“Are you okay?” I ask quietly, knowing he’s not.

Wilder’s broad chest rises and falls. He still doesn’t look at me.

“This is…Cass, I…I don’t know what I am, but I don’t think it’s okay.”

He’s gorgeous in a black suit and silky black tie, tortured as he is.

“Do you want to go home? Regroup?”

He shakes his head. “No. I need to be here for Cricket. For Ashley. For me too,” he admits. When he looks at me, it’s with a depth of sadness and gratitude. “But I’m glad you’re here. Thank you.”

---