Page 72 of Love in Training
“Damn,” she says. “That sure makes him less villainous...”
“Just hold on to your hormones. He’s still a Forbes,” I say quickly. “He sided with their parents when it counted. There would’ve been some catch.”
But even as I say this, the malice in my voice falls flat.
I wasn’t enough.
Those words could have been pulled from the shards in my chest—but they’d come from Drew. And that’s a problem. Because I’ve spent two years bearing this failure alone, and I am not prepared to share. Especially not with him.
“Kyle and Drew were barely speaking before the wedding. That relationship was dead. There was no sickening sibling bond like those two have going on.” My gaze tracks across the grass towhere Lydia’s husband and brother-in-law are currently on their tenth set of push-ups, trying to out-fitness each other. Anton’s eyes flicker habitually toward us, making clear he thinks I’m overtaxing his pregnant wife. I use my leash hand to flip him a subtle middle finger.
“I guess you can’t know what happened between them that last year,” Lydia says, maiming me gently. “Either way, this changes things.”
“It doesn’t change anyth?—”
Suddenly, she halts and plops down on a bench. I stop abruptly, studying her for imminent signs of distress, grateful Anton will be here in a hot second if she’s not okay. But she just takes a calm sip of water and pats the seat next to her.
“I am not sure who’s more high-strung these days—you, or my husband.”
I exhale, settling next to her and filling a collapsible water bowl for Rufus. “I object to you putting us in a sentence together.”
Lydia rolls her eyes, rubbing Rufus’s neck. “Tell me how it’s going withthisguy. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he’s turning you into a dog person.”
My lip curls at her hostile choice of words. But when I look down, I find my hand already resting on Rufus’s head. “Stockholm syndrome,” I mutter. “The training is making him more tolerable. He hasn’t chewed anything he wasn’t supposed to for a week now. He seems calmer when we’re home. Drew did this ‘scent work’ thing with him yesterday, and it was kinda crazy to watch. He seemed to love it.”
Lydia watches me carefully while I ignore her obvious satisfaction.
“But Lydia, if I keep him, I’ll have to move, and probably buy a car, and...” I grimace. “I don’t know, that just feels like a lot with things so uncertain at work.”
This gets her attention, but only leads to more scrutiny. “I thought you just got a raise?”
I squeeze the leash in my hands. I haven’t spoken to anyone other than Randall about my giantoopswith Unmatched, and it’s been killing me. There was no way to tell Theo. I don’t want to worry my mom. And while I respect that Lydia doesn’t want to be treated like some fragile flower right now, it seems unfair to burden her with undue stress. But after the creepy emails I received last week, and the breathy voicemail Saturday, I feel like I’m going a little crazy.
“I’m just behind on deadlines,” I say, dithering. “But since Rufus can come to the office now, I’m catching up.”
Lydia’s eyes narrow. “I call bullshit. What else is going on?”
“Nothing,” I say, dumping out the dog bowl and packing it away.
Rufus sits up and looks back and forth between us, eyes lingering on Lydia as if to sayshe’s lying. Then he rests his head in my lap. I stroke his ears and attempt to change the subject.
“How many weeks are you now?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer, eyes moving from Rufus back to me. Lydia speaks fluent dog, and Rufus might as well be giving a TED Talk on my anxiety.
“What happened?” she asks, and the compassion in her voice gently crumbles what’s left of my walls.
I let out a long breath. “We got an anonymous tip that Colin Vanderpool had a business partner on Unmatched. Or partners—at least one. And I’m pretty sure, whoever they are, they’re not happy I’ve outed him.”
She frowns. “So you’re investigating?”
“Yes.”
There’s a long pause, and while I know Lydia won’t freak the way my family might, I still regret giving her this to worry about.“I know you’ll be smart and as safe as you can.” She reaches out to grasp my hand. “Are you scared?”
I swallow, glancing around the little park and nearby playground. I wasn’t ready for this question, and I’m afraid the answer is blinking like a neon sign on my face.
“I’ve been receiving messages like I did after the first article,” I say, my voice more level than I expected. “I don’t think it was ever Colin Vanderpool sending them.”
