Big Rock(57)

He raises an eyebrow in a question.

I shrug happily and speak quietly. “It was fake. It became real for me. I hope for her, too. I’m going to talk to her tonight and see if she feels the same.”

Nick offers a fist for knocking. “Go for it,” he says, no teasing, no sarcasm now. “You two always seemed right for each other.”

“Yeah? Why?” I ask, eager for corroboration.

But, he laughs and shakes his head. “Dude, what do you think I’m going to say?” He clasps his hands together and bats his eyes, overdoing the hearts and flowers. “Oh, it’s so sweet the way you finish each other’s sentences, and both like gummy bears.” He drops the act and shrugs. “All I know is you’ve got my vote.”

“Thanks, man. I appreciate it.” I pause, then narrow my eyes. “Incidentally, if you ever touch my sister, that’s grounds for me to shave your head in the middle of the night and dye your eyebrows orange.”

His eyes widen and he clutches his locks. “Not the hair. It’s where all my power comes from.”

“Exactly. So, beware.”

We take our spots on the field for the bottom of the ninth, and when the other team doesn’t score, “Raise Your Glass” by P!NK commemorates this Saturday-morning victory. I trot off the field and high-five my teammates.

I slap palms with Mr. Offerman. “This is going to be all yours now,” I joke, gesturing to the team.

“Can’t wait,” he says. “I love it all. I hope you’ll stay on the team, and your friend, too. We’ll need a big bat if we want to win the championship next season.”

Man, it’s a weekend softball league. Chill out.

“I hope you win it all,” I say, staying cordial through the end, as P!NK sings about all the underdogs, and Emily mimes holding a glass to go along with the words of the song. As I stuff my glove and hat into a duffel bag, I glance at Charlotte, who’s getting into the celebration, too, bumping hips with Harper, and it’s pretty cool to see her like this with my sister. It feels like this could be a regular thing—Charlotte hanging out with my family as the woman by my side, not just as my friend. I can picture it all unfolding before me. Days and nights of her. Real instead of fake.

The music stops abruptly, and P!NK’s unbridled enthusiasm for celebrating is replaced by a tinny echo, like when someone cues up a new song with a scratch of a record. But it’s not music that comes from the handheld speaker that Emily clutches.

It’s voices.

Or, rather, my voice.

“Are you not feeling well? Do you have a headache from last night or something?”

I freeze.

My blood rushes cold, as the memory of when I’d said those words slams into me with stark clarity—in the bathroom with Charlotte at MoMA. My jaw clenches and my chest seizes up, because I know what’s next. My eyes search the crowd that gathers near home plate. It’s sparse, but all the key players are here. The Offerman clan. My parents. Me. Like statues, listening to Emily’s recording of my private conversation with Charlotte.

“I can’t fake this.”

The words came from Charlotte a week ago. Adrenaline kicks in, the drive to stop this right now. I take a step closer to Emily and gesture for the speaker as my voice reverberates, amplified from days ago. “The engagement?”

My father’s brow furrows. He meets my eyes, and a flash of disappointment appears in his, chased by embarrassment.

Mr. Offerman stares at me, then snaps his gaze to Charlotte on the bleachers. Her mouth is open, and her eyes are full of terror.

Must. Stop. Now.

I rush to Emily. Maybe I can grab the speaker from her hand and hit stop before the next words sound.

“Stop it. Please,” I plead, reaching for her phone, her speaker, her sense of motherfucking privacy.

She shakes her head and holds the speaker high, as the next line from Charlotte rings loud and far too clear. “No. That’s fine. The pretend engagement is fine.”

Emily hits stop, and I expect her to turn to me and say “caught you.”

But instead, Abe appears, walking around the edge of the makeshift bleachers to join Emily on the field. I do a double take, and point at him. He stands next to Emily, and smiles at her like a proud…teacher?

Emily stares at her dad. “Do you believe me now that I don’t want to study art at Columbia?”

Columbia. Emily’s going to the same school as the tenacious reporter. That must be how she knows him.

Mr. Offerman’s nostrils flare as he steps forward. “Emily, now is not the time to discuss your intended major. What on earth is this about?”

Yeah, I’m kind of wondering the same thing.