“Okay.” I switch my keys out for my phone.
“What are you doing?” Bette studies me closely.
“Looking up flights from Newark to Lexington. The flight itself is about two hours, and I’m just trying to figure out which one I can take given my drive back to Jersey first.”
For as poorly as I reacted to the picture of Kay and JT when I first saw it, I would never begrudge my girl her friends. I respect them for their unwavering support of her through the years; I just want to be the person she runs to from now on.
“Aww.” Mama bear Bette seems to give way to a romantic.
“Before you do that”—E shifts a few inches closer—“you need to ask yourself if you can handle the full weight of Kay’s insecurities.”
Why does everyone think I’ll run because things aren’t easy? I do play football, a full-contact sport. I’m made of tougher stuff than most.
“Don’t try to tell me you think she’s right in saying she’s not good enough for me, because I’ll tell you the same fucking thing I told her.” I’m not even aware I’ve stood up until I feel the soft press of Bette’s hand keeping me back from being toe to toe with her husband. “There is not one person on this earth better for me than her.”
“You’ve got that fucking right, Romeo.” And now we’re back to arms crossed, death-glaring E.
“It’s actually Casanova.”
“Do you really think it’s a good idea to remind me of the nickname you earned by being a manwhore?” E cuts me a sharp look.
“Just trying to lighten the mood.” I shake my hands out to dispel the tension pumping through my veins. Getting into a fight won’t earn me any favor with Kay when I get to her.
“What my overprotective husband”—Bette sends E a Behave look—“is trying to articulate is that Kay may never be able to handle being in the spotlight that follows you. I get and can appreciate what you were trying to do with your Instagram post, but would you really be okay if you had to keep your relationship out of the public eye?”
I don’t care about any of that. The validation I used to derive from my social profile has lost its appeal. It started with seeing Kay get stressed out when we would trend, and after learning the—too few—details of her past, I understand her reactions better.
“My relationship with Kay is nobody’s business except ours. If it helps, I’ll delete my accounts right now.”
Bette and E share a look I can’t decipher beyond it being some type of silent communication.
“Look.” Bette places her hand over mine and gives it a squeeze. “When Kay talks about—and when she’s with you—she’s more like her old self, her true self than we’ve seen in years.”
She isn’t the first person to say something along these lines, and I hope and pray it’s true.
“Then why is she working so hard to convince me she’s no good for me?”
“Because,” E cuts in, “being with you leads to things that prey on Kay’s insecurities, and they—among other things—can lead to her falling apart. In her mind, by not being with you, she’s protecting you.”
“I don’t need her to protect me. I just need her to love me.”
I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again—Kay is my girl, plain and simple.
E takes my measure, his head tilting to the side as he does so. “Okay.” He reaches for the iPad on the coffee table and starts swiping across the screen. “We have to move quickly, but there’s a flight out of BWI in just over an hour. Let’s go.”
Everything happens in a rush after that. I grab my overnight bag from the Shelby then pass the keys off to Bette, the three of us climb into her Range Rover, and my boarding pass is downloaded onto my phone.
Bette leans over the center console. “Any idea how to find Kay when you get there?”
“I’m going to have Grayson pump his brother for information.”
“Good plan,” E agrees, taking the turnoff for the airport. “JT won’t give away anything about Kay, but D”—he nods as if answering himself—“he’s the weak link.”
I pull out my phone.
ME: I need your help.
GRAYSON: What do you need?
#Chapter30
I still have my doubts about attending a house party, but I know when I’ve been outvoted. Here’s hoping that earlier anonymity will extend to tonight, because JT refuses to even let me wear a hat.
He thinks I don’t see it, but I know what he’s doing; this knowing a person as well as they know themselves thing works both ways. JT wants me to see that I can handle the possibility of being recognized in a less pressured atmosphere, like away from the U of J.
“Stop worrying.” JT puts his hand over mine to stop it from picking at the top of the thigh-high boots Rei lent me to wear. The rest of my outfit is pretty casual—a simple white tank top and stonewashed skinny jeans—but I couldn’t resist the shoe porn suede boots. They called to me.
The Ubers come to a stop in front of a large UK-blue-sided house. Unlike the AK house, the Kentucky basketball house is less mansion and more classic American suburban family home with its wide white trim, tan wooden pillars, and wraparound porch.
The lawn and landscaping are manicured and well maintained, and even with a few people dotting the porch, it’s not littered with empty beer bottles or Solo cups.
“We’re gonna go in there”—JT points at the house as the rest of our party files out of their respective vehicles—“drink some beer, and have a good time.”
“But—”
“What we aren’t going to do is worry about any of tonight ending up on social media,” he continues, without giving me a chance to offer an objection.
D leads the way, and as the door opens, I am surprised by how much this does remind me of the nights we attend Carter’s Royal Balls.
There’s music, the volume enough
