“I definitely don’t have six siblings,” I say with a smile.
“Any?”
I shake my head. “Just me. And my parents.” I blink away the rest of my thought as well. I’m sure my face doesn’t light up like his when I talk about family. What expression goes with “cordial?” That’s what he’d get. My parents are polite and in favor of their daughter being an international superstar to make them important. He’s an ACL tear, and I’m a marionette. Except, his wound will heal. Mine has festered since birth.
Panic returns at the stall in the conversation. The social clock ticks. He studies the bottle in his hands. I stare at my feet.
Don’t say goodbye.
“Oliver…” I stop speaking, my stomach twisting. “Um.” Don’t go.
I swallow a lump when he trains those warm brown eyes on me. People always say yes to me. Always. I hate it, and yet, suddenly I can’t stomach the prospect of any other answer from him.
“Are you doing anything this afternoon?” I hold my breath as the question tumbles out, cringing inwardly at the surprised look on his face. Surprise—and something else. It’s the something else that heightens the panic into dread.
“I don’t have plans, but…”
But. Of course there’s a but. I force a smile and even manage a small laugh. “Right, sorry. That came out of nowhere.” I wave my hand. “Okay, well, it was so great meeting you. I wish you all the best in your recovery.”
I turn away before he can see anything besides the nonchalance meant for him. The darkness is for me when I’m alone later. The emptiness.
No one smiles, lies, or hides like her.
“Genevieve, wait.”
Closing my eyes, I draw in a deep breath to steady myself before facing him again. When I do, his expression is sincere, his gaze unfiltered and open.
“It’s just. I’ve been seeing someone. It’s not serious, but—”
“Of course! Really, no worries at all.” I smile again. So much smiling. Man, my cheeks hurt today. More than usual. These smiles are so hard.
He shakes his head, frustrated. “No, I mean. It’s not serious, but I owe her a conversation before I see someone else.”
My heart races. My stomach flutters.
His gaze searches mine. “I’ll talk to her tonight. Ask me again tomorrow?”
“Genevieve!”
I glance around nervously, fiddling with the trucker hat attempting to cover my distinctive red hair. The oversized sunglasses probably aren’t helping much either, but it’s something. Both are wasted efforts anyway when my mother’s involved. Leave it to Corinne Fox to blow any chance of a cover. Whereas I go out of my way to hide as much as possible, she loves the prestige of being a pseudo-celebrity. How many parents take on their child’s stage name? Corinne Hastings might be the first. My father stuck with Hastings, although Baxter, Ramos, and Fox kinda has a better ring to it. The law partners probably didn’t want to waste money on new signage just because Evan’s daughter was famous.
“Mom,” I hiss, sliding into a chair across from them. “Everyone’s looking.”
“So what? Let them look. You have nothing to be ashamed of, sweetie.” She fluffs her hair and tosses a discreet scan around the café, probably scoping it out to see if anyone important might be watching.
Meanwhile, my stomach pinches at her comment. I have nothing to be ashamed of? What does that mean? I stare at the menu, searching for an item that will draw the least input from my mother.
“You looked great out there on the ice today, Gen.”
“Thanks, Dad. It was fun.”
“Yes, most of the photos I saw were outstanding,” Mom says. “Definitely a good call on Selena’s part to do a lowkey event with children after last week’s disaster in Burlington. Although, remember to adjust your jeans while wearing a crop top, sweetie. Your stomach was looking a little flabby in a few of the photos, and I know you don’t have an ounce of fat on you.”
I swallow my retort. There’s no point arguing. Besides, she’s only voicing what everyone else thinks anyway. I’ve seen the comments. It’s my secret indulgence: scrolling through the cesspool when I fall into a particularly dark haze. The pain feeds on itself, craves more evidence to reinforce its vile truths. It feels good to let it thrive and seep into my pores. To feel something. My therapist calls it a downward spiral. Lately, I’ve been calling it my lunchbreak.
“Oh, honey, don’t look so glum. You know I think you’re beautiful. I’m not saying you need to change anything. I just want people to see the real you. And after the Burlington incident—”
“Corinne,” my father interrupts with a subtle shake of his head.
Mom sips her water and shifts in her chair. “Well, anyway. What’s done is done.” She flags a server. “Pinot grigio, Genny? You deserve a treat.”
“No, thanks,” I mutter. “And don’t call me that.”
“Really, Genevieve. Your attitude.” Her brows sink in disapproval as the server approaches. She puts in an order for the table without even asking us what we want. A cucumber plate without the aioli, BLT avocado toast without the toast. Also, can we get it with extra tomato and no bacon jam? A few other things, none of which sound appetizing right now. I rarely feel like eating when they’re around.
“Those children were just darling, weren’t they?” she continues. “Selena said they’ll be covering the event on all the hockey outlets too. Great exposure. A whole new audience for you, Genevieve. Although, it would have been better without that hockey player in the way.”
I glare over at her, patience running thin. “That ‘hockey player’? It was his turf. If anything, I was in his way.”
She waves her hand. “Oh, you know what I mean. The least they could’ve done was pair you with a bigger name. What about that Lyle Sorenson?”
“Kyle Sorenson. And he retired two years ago.”
She shrugs. “Well, whatever. I’m just saying, who’s
