Page 5 of Home Run Fiancé
“Don’t need to bring a thing. I’ve got a friend coming over that night too so I’ll probably just order takeout somewhere.”
I narrow my eyes. “You aren’t trying to set me up with someone are you?”
“What? No!” Asher’s voice gets louder. “That’s like the last thing I’d do to my baby sister. I just have a job proposition for you if you want it. Wouldn’t take much of your time as I know you’re focused on your classes, but it would be good money.”
I shrug and hurry to answer, trying to outpace the school references. “Yeah, okay, that sounds good. Text me what time and I’ll be there. Can you tell me now what the job is?”
Asher hesitates, which makes me suspicious. “Kind of a lot to explain so I’ll just wait ’til Friday. See you then.”
And then he hangs up.
This from the guy incessantly calling me and asking questions. Every single time we talk, I have to practically hang up on him to get the conversation to stop. Now I’m doubly nervous about whatever this job is that he has for me.
I pack my things up and head home in my VW Bug to upload my video and respond to comments. As much as people like to think this “job” is just a hobby or passing fad, it takes time and well-thought-out and produced content to make a channel worth watching. You don’t get videos with thousands or millions of views by uploading boring content that’s badly edited. I spend hours producing just one video, not to mention the time to be on social media and connect with other YouTubers.
One day, I hope to tell Asher everything and have him understand why I chose this path instead of the traditional path of college. Sitting in class all day long listening to a professor drone on about a subject I really don’t care about just isn’t for me. Getting a diploma certainly opens doors, I admit, but the type of job I want doesn’t require it. I don’t want to be some corporate stiff sitting in a cubicle, dreaming of a corner office.
I want to help people. I want to learn new things. I want to do it on my own time and in my own way. Maybe it’s a pipe dream, I don’t know. But now, when I’m only twenty years old with no one depending on me, it seems like the right time to jump. And if it doesn’t work out, I’ll go back to school and try the more traditional route. It feels really darn good to soar through the air and experience the freedom that comes with doing what you want and making decent money at it.
Logically, I know if I took my YouTube gig and moved somewhere in the country where it was cheaper to live, my income would go even farther. Everyone and everything I know is in Southern California, so that idea doesn’t appeal to me, but if I have to, I will.
Back at my studio apartment, I lock the three deadbolts and change into comfy sweatpants and an old undershirt I stole from Asher. My poor flower crown is looking a bit too wilty now so I place it in the trash and thank the flowers for their sacrifice. On my little two-burner stove, I fry up a gluten-free, dairy-free grilled cheese sandwich for an early dinner. I’m attempting to eat a little healthier. Surrounded by Hollywood hopefuls in this town can be hard on a girl’s self-esteem. Women keep getting thinner and thinner. Not that I have aspirations to compete with them, but I have to compensate for my caramel lattes. Priorities, you know.
Comfy now in the uniform of the self-employed, I’ve got a video to upload and new blog ideas to brainstorm. I can’t wait to sit down and get to it. I could be doing boring Chemistry homework right now, but instead, I’m building my future empire and it feels like heaven.
3
Jake
“Come on in.” Asher waves me in through his front door and shuts it behind me.
He’d invited me to dinner this morning via text and I raced over here after practice, freshly showered and in my most comfortable clothes. I’m ready for a relaxing night with my friend, just hanging out and watching some television without having to put on a front or worry about anyone taking my picture.
Normally, I have to wear trendy, uncomfortable clothes and watch every little move I make, which makes hanging out at restaurants or bars something I rarely do these days. I just want to throw on my threadbare jeans and an ol’ T-shirt and have a real conversation. Maybe burp if I feel like it, slouch in my chair, scratch whatever needs scratching. You know, normal guy stuff. Can’t do any of that when fans record everything on their cell phones or paparazzi is hanging around.
I follow him through the living room and into his kitchen, seeing his dining table set for three. I swivel my head and see two large white bags of what I presume is takeout on his counter. Two candles are lit and twinkling on the table like we’re in a French restaurant. He’s rushing around the kitchen opening and closing cabinets and taking out fancy dishware.
“You planning to propose to me tonight?” I stroke my beard, already growing out from how I’d trimmed it up for the court appearance, feeling slightly awkward and hoping the humor will diffuse the situation or at least help explain what in the world is going on. I feel like I didn’t get the memo about what was on the docket for the evening.
Asher stops his frantic movements and rubs his hands on his slacks. Yeah, slacks. Not casual jeans or sweats. Something has run afoul. “Uh, no. I, uh, invited my sister actually.”
Well, now isn’t that interesting. I’ve never actually met his infamous sister. I’ve heard him talking on the phone to her more times than I can count, but I’ve never met her face-to-face.
“She actually exists?”
Asher looks up at me, eyes wide, a hint of a smile. “Of course she exists. I just don’t go around introducing her to the idiot athletes I represent. No offense.”
“Just because you say no offense doesn’t make it less offensive.”
Asher tips his head and I enjoy his discomfort. “You know what I mean. She’s my baby sister and I wouldn’t want most of the athletes I represent to come within fifty yards of her.”
I puff up my chest and rub my soft T-shirt. “Well now, I feel quite complimented.” Then I drop my hands and get serious. “So why am I meeting her now?”
Asher goes to answer me, but his doorbell cuts him off. He spins around and rushes to the door, looking relieved to escape my question. You don’t reach the ripe old age of twenty-eight without learning to spot red flags. And right now there are so many red flags waving, I can barely see Asher at the front door. Something is definitely not right and I’m already wondering how quickly I can excuse myself and get out of here. I did not sign up for a night of stilted conversation with some young girl, having to watch my every word for fear of offending her sensibilities.
“Ash!” I hear her call out, right before long arms wrap around his waist. I bet even the neighbors heard that. Not only am I surprised by the volume, but also the throaty rasp that does a number to a spot under my sternum. I rub my chest, suddenly very intrigued with who this sister is and what game Asher’s playing. I wrack my brain and vaguely remember her name to be Rhys or Tris or something funny like that.
Asher finally untangles himself and spins around, tugging a tall woman into the kitchen with him. The ten-yard walk over gives me a precious few seconds to drink her in. She’s almost as tall as Asher, her hair a golden brunette and the lighter ends aren’t from a salon either. She’s got bright white and yellow flowers in her hair, which both intrigue and irritate me. Who wears flowers in their hair past the age of five? Her long dress swishes around her ankles, a white jean jacket keeping her upper body mostly covered, but I can still see multiple strands of necklaces winking in the light from around her neck.
