Not My Match (The Game Changers 2)

I bring the phone back.

“Didn’t you used to have a crush on him?”

“Who?”

“Aren’t you listening? Mike Millington, the new principal at Daisy High. Recently divorced. He married some girl he met at Tulane. She ran around on him, and there’s a child, but she’s adorable. Only three years old—plenty of time for you to ease your way in and be a good role model—”

“I did not have a crush.” Four years older than me, he lived next door to us until he left for college. I totally wrote our names in my notebook and drew little hearts around them. When I was thirteen.

“He handcuffed me to a tree once,” I throw out.

“They were plastic handcuffs. Don’t embellish.”

I leave the memories behind as realization dawns. “Mama! You invited him to my birthday lunch? Why?”

“Dear, be nice. His dad passed, and his mom just a few months later. He’s moved back to Daisy and is living in their house. He’s starting over, dear, and I’m just being neighborly. Don’t worry about details. Let me take care of it all.”

I get that she thinks I’m unhappy, but no, I pick my own bad dates.

“I haven’t seen him in ten years,” I sputter, standing so I can pace around the living room. “I don’t want to stuff food in my face while he sits across from me. It’s my birthday—”

“I’ll put him next to you.”

I groan. “Why?”

There’s a long silence, just the sound of her breathing, and when her voice comes, it’s subdued, a tinge of hurt echoing in the tones. “It’s a bittersweet day, dear, but you deserve a party. I want some happiness for you.”

My eyes shut. While I was under the bleachers at the high school, mostly naked and getting videoed, my dad wrecked his car, went into a coma, and never came back. It was my sixteenth birthday. I’ve refused a party ever since, and the curse was born.

And the coldness.

My chest exhales. “We should just do it like we always do. Low key.”

I hear the tinkle of a teacup as she sets it back on the saucer. “I can’t take back the invitation. It’s rude. Any good hostess knows this. Once everyone gets here, you’ll be glad. I know you better than you think.”

I pinch my nose. “Once everyone . . .” What is she planning? “Did you invite my preschool boyfriend too?”

“What’s his name?”

“Jude—whatever, Mama, you can’t fill the house with prospective husbands! I don’t need a man. I have my work.” This is the direct opposite of my thoughts lately, but I can hardly tell her about my quest, which has nothing to do with love. Feelings don’t have to be involved at all. Just the act itself.

I glare at the wall, fingering my necklace. “If we’re doing this, I want alcohol.”

“It’s the Lord’s day.”

“Champagne. Jesus would understand.”

She pauses. “Okay.”

I stare at the phone, as if expecting to see her come through the phone with two heads. She’s . . . compromising?

I let out a sigh and grit my teeth. “I’m not dressing up.”

“Of course, dear,” she purrs, victory in her voice. “Wear your usual. You always look so nice.”

Because my style is modeled after hers.

“Uh-huh. Just you wait.”

“Don’t be bratty like your sister.”

I smirk. Elena was the one who went off to New York to college (the nerve of her leaving the South), traveled Europe, then gave up her chance to be a physician to be a librarian turned sexy-lingerie maker. She’s the rebel, and I’m the spare, the one Mama believes will never step out of line, but these days I’m teetering on a tightrope, and I don’t know which way I’ll fall. With a sigh, I end up telling her about CERN, and she can’t keep the relief out of her voice. She never wanted me to even apply. At least someone is happy about it.

Later, after the wine has chilled me, I circle back to the party. “Did you invite Devon?”

Dialogue in the background vanishes; she’s clicked off the TV. “Do you want me to?”

My hands grip the phone. “Just trying to get a feel for how many people will be there.”

“Have you seen him since the wedding?”

I don’t like her tone—it’s as if she’s taking notes.

“Briefly.” It’s not an outright lie, but I don’t want to get into a convo about Devon and all that entails.

“He’s not really your type, dear. He’s from California.”

She says it like he’s been in prison. I roll my eyes.

“And he has not one, but two earrings.”

“I can count.”

“And those tattoos? Bless.”

Which is why she’s never seen my pitiful attempt at ink.

“He’s a playboy,” she continues. “Who was that girl at the wedding? She had on enough makeup for a glamour shot.”

“All women are different, Mama. Don’t judge us.”

“Well, y’all don’t go together. You need a hometown boy and babies.”