Page 47 of Sexting the Coach
“That’s not a very nice way to treat your girlfriend.”
“Oh, trust me,” he says, lowering his voice and dipping his chin closer to mine, his eyes flicking back and forth over my face, “I am known to treat my girlfriendsverynice.”
A shiver runs the length of my body, and it’s quickly followed by embarrassment. It’s true—I’m not even his girlfriend, and he did treat mevery nice. Only for me to pass out immediately after.
For the next ten minutes, the two of us drift through the ballroom, mostly saying hello to people he knows. Each time, he introduces me to them as his girlfriend, and each time I have to wrestle with the mountain of wanting in my chest at the sound of that.
To my surprise, most of them don’t bat an eye at the age difference. The women chat with me amicably and the men are impressed by my knowledge of hockey.
Then, just after Weston replenishes the champagne in my hand, we turn the corner and run into two people I was not expecting to see here tonight.
“Elsie?” my mom says, blinking and glancing between me and Weston, her hand slipping off my father’s arm in surprise. They look like they always do—my mom perfectly polished, my dad like he was stuffed into the suit last minute and forced to come along.
How did I not know they were going to be here tonight.
“So, it’s true, then,” Dad says, his eyes darting over to Weston. “You’re dating my daughter.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Montgomery,” Weston says, sticking out his hand. “Big fan.”
I bite my tongue, heart thudding as my dad stares at his hand for a moment, before reaching out and shaking it.
“Alright,” Dad says, and I relax, catching my mom’s eye. We share a look—my father is known for being a hot head. Great for on the ice. Not so much when you’re trying to introduce boyfriends. “I actually can’t believe we haven’t crossed paths before.”
As Dad and Weston talk, Mom sidles up to me, giving me one of her sly smiles, “He’s cute.”
I roll my eyes, heat flaming over my face. My mom was obsessed with Jonathan—constantly asking when we were going to get married. I’d thought she’d be disappointed about Weston, given the difference in age.
“Yeah,” I agree, because although this thing might be fake, I don’t have to lie about that. “He is.”
“I never told you,” my mom whispers, going for another drink, then realizing her glass is empty. “But I dated an older guy in college—” she drops her voice to a whisper, “—aprofessor, actually. So, I get it. Little boost to move on from Johnny.”
I pull back to frown at her, but she’s clearly had more than her fair share of champagne tonight and doesn’t even register that I’m upset. Ishouldn’tbe upset—so what if my mom is acting like a relationship with Weston would just be a phase? It’s not real, anyway.
Maybe it’s the glass of champagne I’ve already finished, or maybe it’s what Weston said to me the other night, about talking to my brother, but I feel my mouth opening and words coming out before I can stop them.
“Have you heard from Drew lately?”
Mom blinks, a brief moment of sobriety before she turns to me, baffled. “What do you mean? Like today?”
I think about that nice, creamy envelope sitting atop the microwave at home. The several other pieces of mail from my brother all sitting in that graveyard.
The way that I’ve been avoiding seeing my brother when he goes home. Either missing family holidays or coming a day too late, just missing him on his way out again. Thanksgiving with just Mom, Dad, and me, because Drew couldn’t make it.
“No, never mind,” I say, watching as my mother settles down again, glancing at my father before quickly changing the subject. It’s a good thing he’s still in conversation with Weston, because he might have used this as yet another opportunity to make it perfectly clear that he blames me for what happened.
For ruining Drew’s life.
“Alright,” Mom says, taking Dad’s arm and giving him a purposeful look. Maybe she can tell there’s something different about me, that there’s something itching inside me to drag out all our ugly mess and sort through it once and for all, because she tugs on him. “I think we have some other people to speak to before the auction. It was nice to meet you, Weston.”
“You, too, Sandra.”
With that, Weston and I are left alone, and my body feels strange, buzzing slightly. Like I rode the roller coaster to the top of the track and never got the satisfaction of plummeting back down.
“You okay?” Weston asks, his eyes on me as I take his arm again and we circle back over by the refreshments. “You want another drink?”
I glance at the empty glass in my hand, think about my mother—drinking wine on school nights, and drinking more after the incident. When we pass a bussing table, I deposit my glass on it and shake my head, not wanting Weston to see too much into the action.
“No, thanks,” I say, desperately trying to close myself back up, to make things as neat and tidy as they were before Weston came into the picture. “Let’s just try and get through the rest of the night.”
