Page 91 of Sexting the Coach
“Absolutely excruciating,” he agrees, before pulling me onto his lap. “It worked out in the end, though.”
“Yes,” I sigh, leaning down and kissing him, letting out bodies come together. “Yes, it did.”
Epilogue
Weston
“Make sure the temperature is right. She likes it a little warmer than what the thing says?—”
I reach over, plucking the phone out from Elsie’s hand, ignoring her protests, and turning the screen toward myself. “Hi Mabel, hi Hattie.”
“Will you please tell Elsie that we’ve got this?” Mabel deadpans through the screen, and true enough, there’s our baby in Mabel’s arms, sleeping soundly, not fussing a bit. For a second, I forget what I’m doing and just look at our baby girl, until Mabel says, “And tell her to enjoy her day off.”
I jolt back to the present, smiling, “Oh, I’m trying.”
“Weston, give that back,” Elsie says, grasping for the phone, but I hold it out of her reach and say goodbye to Mabel and Hattie, who are more than capable of caring for our six-month old. This is the first time Elsie has deigned to leave her with someone else while we left, though the two of them were over at our place—one or the other or both of them—most days after she gave birth.
Them, and Elsie’s parents. And Drew, and Karlee. With all the people coming in and out of the house, it was as though we’d hired a full-time, baby-caring staff. So not only are Mabel and Hattie well-versed in babysitting, but they’re also specifically attuned to Mia herself.
“You’re going to make them think you don’t trust them,” Drew says, dancing out of Elsie’s reach when she glares at him.
“First of all, aren’t you supposed to be schmoozing somewhere, and second, the internet says it’s totally reasonable to be anxious the first time you leave?—”
“Dear,” Sandra says, appearing behind her and straightening one of the straps of Elsie’s dress. “The internet is an enabler.”
“Exactly,” Drew says.
“And you are supposed to be over there,” Sandra says, turning and glaring at her son. “Preparing for your speech.”
“I’m prepared.”
I stifle a laugh, and both Elsie and Sandra turn to glare at me. We’re at Drew’s gallery—the one he sent invitation after invitation for—and it’s thick with the smells of expensive perfume and cologne, patrons of the arts streaming past us on either side, their suits and dresses a myriad of colors.
The entire gallery is filled with Drew’s work, a culmination of five years of painting.
“Andrew, there you are.” A tall man in a sharp suit appears, his eyes locking onto Drew. “Stop slipping away. You need to talk to the Bergmans before giving your speech.”
Drew lets out a groan that’s more like a little boy’s than the successful artist being presented in a prestigious gallery. “No, those guys are?—”
“Very generous donors to the gallery and also personally interested in several of your pieces,” the tall man says through his teeth. “So, you’re coming.”
Elsie relaxes into my side as we make our way through the gallery, taking in the different pieces. We stop in front of one—what appears to be a backyard ice rink, two tiny figures on it.
The boy is in a tiny pink skater’s dress, and the girl is wearing full hockey gear. It’s titledThe Day.
I turn to Elsie, knowing she’s crying before even looking at her. I pull a pack of tissues from my pocket—I came prepared for this—and put my arm around her as she shakes.
We don’t need to talk. We’ve done plenty of that for the past six months. Enough that I know that while this makes her sad, it also makes her happy that her brother is back in her life.
When it’s time for Drew’s speech, we line up at the front of the gallery, where there’s a little platform and a microphone.
“Alright,” Drew says, clearing his throat and stepping up to the microphone. “I’m going to keep this brief. Thank you to my family, for the love and the inspiration. Thanks to every rich person here today who’s considering buying a piece—” here, the tall man not-so-subtly pinches Drew, and a titter of laughter moves through the crowd, Sandra shaking her head next to me.
“It’s not always easy to be genuine,” Drew says, and his gaze lands on Elsie to my left. She nods, and I feel the movement against my jacket. “But you’ll find that once you push through, being genuine is the only real way to be human. I’m grateful to art—and all of you—for allowing me to by myself.”
With that, he keeps his word, ending the speech and raising his glass. We all drink happily, watching as his paintings are spoken for, one after the other.
“Drew,” Elsie says, when we manage to catch up with him. “I want to buyThe Day. I know it’s already spoken for?—”
