Page 81 of The Wild Card
Molly’s hand lingers on my wrist again, and her eyes search mine as she sets down the phone, then releases me.
“Thank you. I’ll post it later.”
I take another chip, needing something to do with my hands so I don’t grab her and haul her over into my lap. “You like it?”
“The guacamole? Yes—it’s great. The food in Texas is amazing.”
I almost tell her that I made it myself, then feel like it would be fishing for compliments. Because it would be. It would also be revealing maybe too much of my hand.
Don’t want to seem desperate or anything. Even if that’s exactly how I’m starting to feel when it comes to Molly.
“I guess as long as you keep feeding me and supplying me with coffee in the mornings, I’ll call you whatever you want,” she says.
Right—we were talking about househusband versus houseboyfriend. “Mr. Biceps will do.”
She laughs, then takes another chip. “I could eat this whole bowl. Is this going to ruin our dinner?”
“Nah. This is just an appetizer to tide us over. I wasn’t sure if you’d want a break after a hard day of work at the coffeeshop,” I say pointedly.
Molly gapes at me. “How did you hear about that?”
“I guess you didn’t set up a profile on the Neighborly app yet,” I say. “It’s really the best way to keep tabs on everyone and everything. Someone posted about you working with Kalli. So, you decided one job wasn’t enough and you got yourself a second one?”
“I didn’t really mean to get another job. But I was in there, and it was slammed, so I started helping out. I actually really enjoyed it, and Kalli said she could use a hand. It just kind of happened. I figured while Thayden is looking over my Brightmark contract, another job couldn’t hurt,” she adds quickly.
“You talked to Thayden?”
“He texted. Thanks for giving him my number. I feel much better with him looking it over before I sign.”
Molly is saying she feels better, but there’s a tightness to her expression, like she’s trying really hard to convince me—or convince herself—of something.
But of what—that’s what I’m not sure of.
“What about social media?” I press, knowing that I’m probably being too nosy. “I thought with your millions of followers, you’d be making bank on social media. Or that you wouldn’t have time for second, or I guess,thirdjobs.”
“Social media will eat up however much time you give it,” she says. “It never stops being hungry. And I do make pretty good money.”
Then why, I wonder, was she so desperate for the Brightmark job that she lied to get it? There’s a silentbutat the end of her sentence, something she isn’t telling me.
After seeing the response to our post, I did a quick Google search to see how much someone with her follower count could make. The number is staggering, especially for something so simple as posting videos showing her putting on skincare or eating lunch.
That doesn’t mean Mollyismaking that much, of course, but I’d imagine it’s at the least a six-figure income level. But one thing I do know about social media is that it’s not consistent. And not everyone knows how to handle money—especially when they’re young. When I was playing football, I watched multiple young guys blow through million-dollar contracts and sponsorships, ending up in financial difficulties or even bankruptcy.
I was grateful that Tank taught us all how to manage our money. My career didn’t last long, and I never had massive contracts, but I walked away with plenty. Maybe Molly has been blowing through whatever she makes. Though I haven’t seen any sign of that.
She’s borrowing a car and staying at my dad’s place for free, so it’s not like she’s spending money on fancy cars or luxury hotels. And I’m not an expert on fashion, but nothing she wears seems like fancy designer clothing. Compared to Liza, who wasconstantly shopping and going to salon appointments for nails, hair, and eyelashes, Molly is downright low-key.
“But you still wantedanotherjob?”
Molly’s gaze drops, and she scoots away from the coffee table. And away from me. She grabs a throw pillow, hugging it to her chest.
I’ve clearly hit a nerve, and it’s one she doesn’t want exposed. At least, not yet—or not to me.
Why do I want her to tell me so badly? To trust me and feel like she can open up?
Molly is like a vault of secrets, and I’m twirling the lock, my ear pressed to the door, listening for the smallest click.
I want to push, to ask more questions the way I would if this were Pat or James or Harper, but instead, I force myself to be silent. To listen and wait. Hoping she’ll say whatever it is she’s keeping close. Whatever I’ve sensed she hasn’t been saying.
