Delaney James was wearing Chanel the night her husband told her he didn't love her anymore.
In an instant, her picture-perfect Manhattan life-complete with a brownstone on the Upper East Side, a blossoming career as a fashion journalist, and a devas...
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"Need a beer?" Mitchell calls from the kitchen.
I lift my glass of scotch off the arm of the chair, tipping it enough for the ice to knock against the side. "I'm good."
The patio door rolls shut. A second later, he drops into the chair beside me with a sigh, stretching his legs out toward the yard.
"Where's the wife?"
A laugh works loose before I can catch it. "She's with Jo. They took Hannah to the beach and then were stopping somewhere for dinner."
"Ah." He twists his beer bottle between his palms. "No wonder you finally had time for me."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Means I know you've been dodging me." He takes a pull from his beer before pointing the neck of the bottle in my direction. "Don't think I haven't noticed."
I roll my eyes. "You're being dramatic."
"Am I?" He smirks as he relaxes farther into the chair. "You've bailed the last three times we've asked you to hang out. I call; she's in the background."
I take a long sip of my drink while he keeps going.
"'Baby, Love Island starts in five minutes.'" He shifts his voice higher in what I assume is supposed to be an imitation of Delaney. "'Baby, did you get my tampons?'"
"You're an asshole."
"You're fucking whipped."
I shrug. "Sorry not sorry."
"Unbelievable." He laughs as he lifts his drink to his lips, looking way too satisfied with himself. "So..." His bottle lands against the arm of the chair. "How was L.A.?"
It's been almost two weeks since Delaney and I got back, and we've barely been apart.
I dropped her off at home that first Sunday, but by that night I was texting her, asking if she'd crack her window so I could sneak in the way I used to when we were teenagers. She said no.
Then she showed up at my front door with an overnight bag anyway.
She's slept next to me every night since.
Mitchell isn't asking about Delaney, though. He's asking about Los Angeles, and I'd be lying if I said the trip was easy.
I spent weeks trying not to think about it before we left. Wondering who I'd run into. Whether people would stare. Whether enough time had passed for baseball to forget me the way I spent years trying to forget it.
The morning of the ESPYS, I ended up sitting on the shower floor with my head between my knees trying to keep my breathing under control before the panic could drag me under completely. Delaney kept saying she couldn't wait to see me in my element, and I couldn't bring myself to tell her how badly I didn't want to walk into that theater.
