Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 91501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
“If possible, it’s gained momentum.” Mom sets the pan on a hot pad in the center of my kitchen counter.
She’s not wrong. The video is being played and replayed on networks I’ve never even heard of. Entertainment channels and gossip blogs. The news. European news.
I can’t go out in public without fans approaching—they all seem to bring it up. Instead of getting excited about an upcoming game, they ramble on and on about Chandler Westbrooke kicking my ass.
“Wallace, would you mind telling us how tall the girl was who whooped your butt?”
“She sure showed you.”
“You lost your man card after that, huh?”
Thanks everyone.
Thanks.
“You know,” she prattles on, passing Dad the plates. “You know,” she says again to make sure I’m listening, glancing over at me. “I’ve been thinking about all this Chandler karate-throwing business that’s been going on—all the ladies in the book club are in a tizzy about it.” Mom uses a spatula to carve out a piece of flaming hot cheese, sauce, and pasta—like slicing a cake—scoops it up, slides it onto my father’s waiting plate. “The girls are convinced none of that whole production was real.”
Calling them the girls is being generous. These women—the members of her book club—haven’t been girls in about sixty years.
See, Buzz and I are in a book club with our mom. It’s called something lame, like the Bellmont Readers, and it’s mostly grandmas and shit, plus me and my brother. No one really knows about it except them, and Buzz and now Hollis, who sometimes comes to the meetings too, if the book selection is a title she’s been wanting to read.
There are ten of them and the amount of gossip and nagging these women do is beyond.
“They’re convinced the entire thing was…” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “Staged.” A sigh. “I told them, ‘No way would my Tripp let a young woman manhandle him like that.’”
Right. Exactly.
I nod.
“Mom’s got your back,” Dad says, not wanting to be left out of this conversation but not having much to add.
“Anyway,” she goes on, “it made me wonder if maybe you did plan it as some sort of entertainment. You boys have always been showboaters—always in competition with each other.”
Huh? “Why would I try to show my brother up at his own wedding?” What kind of a prick does she think I am?
“I don’t know, sweetheart, but it inevitably happens whenever the two of you are in the same room. You’ve been that way since you were little. Remember your brother’s tenth birthday? When you blew out the candles as soon as we were all done singing and made him cry?”
Yeah, I remember.
I smirk.
“You’re an upstager. You have been since you were little.”
“What? Me!” Pfft. I refuse to believe it. “And that wasn’t the case.” Not this time.
Mom’s shrug is noncommittal. “I’m just saying.” She stabs the lasagna onto the tines of her fork, brings it to her lips, and blows.
“Chandler Westbrooke hates me,” I reluctantly admit, letting the fact linger at the dinner table.
“No shit.” Dad snorts. “That girl can’t stand you.”
“Roger!” Mom chastises him. “Be nice!”
“He’s not wrong,” I allow.
“Maybe so, but what if you were seen out with her? Like in public.”
“People would assume we were dating.” And that would be horrible and suddenly I’m shaking my head no. “Mom, no.”
But she is grinning. “It would get the press off your back.”
Is she insane?
“No it would not!” If anything, being seen with Chandler would make things worse. They’d have a new something to latch onto. A new story, more speculation, more drama. The story needs to die and the only way to do that is to leave it alone.
“At least everyone in America wouldn’t think my son was a damn pussy,” Dad mutters.
“Dad, what the fuck!”
He shrugs. “Come on, we’re all thinking it, I’m just saying it out loud.”
Wow. Words I said just the other night at my brother’s wedding, while making an ass of myself in front of an entire room of people. Famous people. Wealthy people. My family. My friends. Hollis’s family.
Shit.
“Think about it,” Dad drones on. “You get the Westbrooke girl to be seen with you, take her somewhere nice—I’ll throw in fifty bucks to offset some of the cost. Or a park.”
That’s Dad’s big idea? A park? Parks are creepy and weird, filled with people doing weird shit, like throwing frisbees and having picnics and holding hands.
Jeez. I’m screwed.
“And the paparazzi will see you being nicey-nicey and a new story gets circulated.”
Good god, my parents are more diabolical than Travis.
It’s kind of frightening.
Dad’s hands go up as if framing the perfect photograph with his palms and he closes one eye dramatically. “Chicago Blues star Tripp Wallace’s budding new romance with Steam heiress Chanandler Westbrooke.”
“It’s Chandler,” I correct.
Mom rolls her eyes. “Your father is right, dear. This is a great way to salvage your reputation.” She drinks from her water glass. “You’re kind of an asshole.”