It doesn’t take long for Jet and me to fall into a comfortable routine, either. I’m never awake before him, but his gorgeous smile greets me every time my eyelids flutter open each day. Only the first morning was he still in bed, but he seemed embarrassed by that, so it hasn’t happened again. Usually, he’s wheeling in the breakfast cart, pausing at the foot of the bed and asking, “Here or by the pool? It’s a beautiful day.”
It feels weird to eat in bed when he’s already fully dressed, so I meet him by the pool after using the bathroom, repairing the worst aspects of my early morning appearance, and changing into a swimsuit.
He squints into the sun, closes one eye, and beams up at me, his teeth gleaming in his unshaven face. “’Morning, Beautiful,” he says while pushing a steaming cup of Kona blend coffee across the table toward me. Somehow (don’t ask me how), some way, the endearment doesn’t sound sleazy or objectifying, either. It’s sweet and heartfelt. It feels… right.
After he leaves for his morning commitments, I head for the beach. The resort has its own stretch of sand, of course, but guests with kids arrive around noon, so I savor the morning quiet with a book, then head back to the room when it starts to get crowded. It’s not that I resent the noise—it’s fun to watch the little ones dart in and out of the tide and pat the damp sand into “castles” and other sloppy shapes—but I worry I’m in the way. I don’t fit in with the happy families, and it feels like I’m intruding on their private time together.
As one of the only ones not married (or legally connected through children) to the person who brought me, I often get the feeling the other women are sizing me up, trying to determine if I’m a temporary addition to the wives and girlfriends club or someone they’d better get used to seeing. Since I don’t have a clue which one I am, either, it’s hard to know how to act. Being too friendly seems presumptuous; being too standoffish comes off as snobby. The last time I was part of a “girlie” group of friends, though, was high school. Look how that turned out. I’m sorely out of practice, and it shows here.
So I make polite conversation with the other WAGs at meals and group activities. Tomorrow, at the game, I’ll be lumped together with the AFC West players’ guests in a luxury suite, but I’m more comfortable around the players themselves, joking and talking about football like one of the guys. That probably doesn’t do me any favors. Being here at all is sufficiently weird, though; I have to be myself, or it won’t be fun.
It worries me enough to query Jet about it on our last moonlit walk. With our hands linked and swinging between us, like two carefree kids, I ask, “Am I being too… familiar with some of the guys?”
He laughs. “I don’t know. Are you? Should I be keeping a closer eye on you?”
I nudge him. “Not like that. But am I coming off as a dorky fan trying too hard to fit in?”
“No! You’re awesome. You’re the best girlfriend here. Everyone loves you.”
“I don’t feel like the other women like me.”
“I wouldn’t know about that,” he says quietly, kicking at the water.
“Maybe I shouldn’t hang out with you and the guys later tonight.”
“What?” He stops walking. “Aw, come on, Maura. Don’t be like that.”
“Like what? All I’m saying is, maybe I should give you guys some space and keep to the room. Watch a movie.”
“It’s our last night!”
“Yeah. That’s my point.”
“If I show up without you, they’ll be disappointed.”
“I doubt it.”
“Keaton thinks you’re hilarious.”
Only a few weeks ago, that statement would have made it possible for me to die happy. But the more I get to know Keaton, the less I like him and the better Jet looks in comparison. (And yes, I compare them. It’s only natural. Don’t judge me.) So in this case, Mr. Tight End’s approval doesn’t outweigh the burden of so many others’ possible disapproval.
“That’s nice, but—”
“And if you stay in the room, people will think we had a fight, or something.”
“So? Who cares?”
Instead of answering, he resumes walking and lets go of my hand. I keep stride with him. Finally, he says, “Whatever. Do what you want. But don’t do it because some people are petty assholes.”
“I don’t want anybody thinking I’m flirting with their man. Or that I’m rejecting them in favor of hanging out with the famous people.”
“You say who cares about what people will think about you not going out tonight, but you’re willing to give up a good time because you do care what they think about other things. That makes no sense.”
“I don’t have to make sense.”
“Whatever,” he repeats.
“Jet, don’t be mad at me.”
“I’m not mad; I’m disappointed.”
“Oh, geez. Anything but that,” I say in mock horror, trying to bail us out of our first official argument.
“Then stop being dumb and worrying about what a couple of jealous mean girls might think about you.”
I swallow loudly and halt in my tracks. The sand sucks at my feet, which sink as the tide laps around my ankles and zooms back toward the deeper water. It takes him a few steps to realize I’m no longer next to him, but when he does, he stops, too, and half-turns to look at me. “What’s wrong now?”
“I’m not dumb.”
He drops his head and jams his hands in his pockets. Walking back toward me, he says, “That’s not what I meant.”
“But that’s what you said.”
“I said you were being dumb.”
“Same thing.”
He lifts his head and shows me his profile as he stares at the black, glassy waves but chooses not to say anything else.
Pulling my feet from their quicksand anchors, I say, “I’m going to head
