Page 87 of Stepping Up to the Plate

“Not that I know of. Why wouldn’t he take me with him? I told him I was fine if he wanted to go back. He promised to tell me when he went.”

“If it was for a meeting, he probably didn’t think it made sense to have you sit around. Maybe this was part of a demonstration or something.”

“I-maybe. Oh God, Tiffany. I can’t do this again. I can’t be with another man who needs someone else to fulfill his fantasies. Leaving Phil hurt, but being betrayed by Brady…” I can’t even finish my thought because pain seizes me.

“Lola!” Tiffany yells. I glance up and see her standing right in front of me. “You’re spiraling. Take a deep breath. There’s got to be an explanation. I’m sure he was planning to tell you. It’s okay. In and out, babe. Breathe for me.”

Following her instructions, my chest loosens as my lungs fill with air. Everything she is saying sounds right. Everything I know about Brady points to him being loyal. The man won’t even stray from his favorite Pop-Tart flavor. There has to be an explanation.

“Are you going to be alright on your own? I have to get ready for work, but I can call in sick if you need me,” Tiffany offers.

“I-I’m fine. Go. Don’t worry about me.”

She doesn’t appear convinced, but she heeds my wishes, anyway. “You’re one of my besties. I’ll always worry about you. Text me if you need anything, including beating Miller’s ass. I don’t care how big and bossy he is. I’m scrappy.”

I think she’s trying to lighten the mood with that last comment but it doesn’t work. Patting me on the shoulder, she goes to get ready. I remain at the island until she leaves for work. That’s when I make the self-destructive decision to dive deeper into this. I sit on the couch, scouring the Internet for articles about Brady and this mystery woman. Then I stare at the ceiling and wonder how I ended up in the same position twice in less than a year.

* * *

I didn’t think I was sitting there for long, but it must have been hours. I’m jarred from my disoriented state by a loud knock at the door. When I check the clock, it’s almost three p.m.

“Lola,” I hear someone shout from the other side of the door as the knocks get louder. I realize it’s Brady. I peel myself off the couch and wander over to the door.

“What do you want?” I ask.

“Baby, can you open the door? I need to talk to you.”

“Maybe I don’t want to talk to you.”

“Lola,” he pleads. He says my name with such gentle sincerity it compels me to let him in. When the door opens, he scans me as if he expects to find me injured. When he gets to my face, his eyes soften. He lets out a sigh of relief as he enters the apartment.

He walks through to the living area and paces across the floor. I stand several feet away and wrap my arms around my waist as I wait for him to tell me what he came to say.

“You wanted to talk,” I prompt. He eyes me wearily and I can tell he is stopping himself from reaching out and comforting me. He can sense how guarded and uncomfortable I am.

“Shit. I don’t even know where to begin,” he utters. I don’t know either, so I remain silent.

“You’ve seen the pictures,” he states. It’s not a question. We both know I’ve seen them. “It isn’t what you think.”

I can’t hold back my scoff.

“It isn’t. I would never, under any circumstances, cheat on you. Deep down, you know that is true. Aside from the fact I’d never intentionally hurt you, my reputation means too much to me to squander it on some short-sighted physical release.”

What he’s saying makes sense. He values how his friends and the community see him as someone with character, someone they can count on. But Phil valued his reputation, too. That didn’t stop him from doing what he wanted. It just made him sneaky.

Like with Phil, I have proof right in front of my eyes. I can’t imagine another scenario that explains these images or why he didn’t tell me he was going to be at the club. Going to a sex club is a thing you mention to your partner, especially since I have straight up asked him to in the past.

I decide to come right out and ask what I need to know. “Did you have sex with her?”

“No,” he responds with no hesitation. His eyes bleed hurt at the accusation.

“Did you play with her?”

“No,” he repeats. “I didn’t touch her.”

“You’re touching her in the pictures,” I point out.

“I touched her, but I didn’ttouchher,” he bargains. “I didn’t touch her sexually. I haven’t looked at a woman in that way since we got together. Hell, since the night we met at the club. You know you’re the only one for me.”

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