Page 24 of Maid of Dishonor

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Page 24 of Maid of Dishonor

“With the starving children,” I say, squeezing my eyes shut when I see what he means. The familiar music starts to play, so I slap my hands over my ears too, because if I hear that music or see those little kids, their cheeks gaunt, their tummies distended, Iwillcry. And then I will call that number and give them all the money I don’t have. Even now I itch to pick up the phone.

It’s the kids. It’s always the kids that get me. I just picture my little first graders and I’m a goner. Which is why I love our local drives for classroom books and school supplies, so that children who don’t have things they need can still be prepared to learn.

Carter taps my feet when it’s safe for me to open my eyes and uncover my ears. And though I don’t mention it and neither does he, after that his thumb resumes its soothing circles over my ankle bone.

My couch is so comfortable and my body so exhausted from doing its monthly routine that despite the overhead light and the sound of the game, I end up letting my head rest against the couch and closing my eyes. And when I fall asleep, it’s accompanied by the drowsy conclusion that I’m going to start trying to flirt with my best friend.

Six

Carter

I’m goingto go ahead and give myself an Academy Award. Best Actor goes to Carter Ellis for keeping it on the down low that he can’t stop thinking about kissing his best friend—the woman fast asleep with her feet in his lap.

That’s what those awards are called, right? The Academy Awards? Or is it the Oscars? Are they the same thing? Or am I thinking of the Golden Globes? Grammys are for music, I’m pretty sure. And there’s one for plays and stuff too, I think—a guy’s name, but I don’t remember it.

Whatever. The point is, Sam’s truly gorgeous legs are stretched outright there, right next to me, and I only looked at them the one time.

But the baseball game is over, leaving me nothing else to focus on, and I am not a masochist. So I wake Sam up and drag her where we always go to let off steam: the batting cages. Because believe me—I need to let off some steam. I’m just going to let Sam think it’s related to Maya rather than to her.

And, to be fair, it is partly related to Maya. Maya andChet.

The cages are indoor, which I’m grateful for on a day this warm. The walls and floor are both obscenely green, and the space echoes with the unmistakable sound of pitching machines and bats connecting with baseballs and softballs. We each pay for an hour’s pass before being given helmets and bats. Then we make our way over to one of the empty cages.

“All right,” I say, pointing at the pitching machine. “Each ball that comes out of there is one of our problems.”

Sam nods. “And we hit it away. Yes. Good. I like that.”

I raise one brow at how fervent she sounds. “You have problems I don’t know about?”

“What? No,” she says—too quickly.

Sam is a terrible liar.

“Are you sure?” I say. I keep my voice teasing, because Sam is the kind of person who will sometimes spook if you push too hard.

She doesn’t answer; instead she just untwists the scrunchie from her hair, letting it fall so that she can put her helmet on.

I watch her until I realize I’m watching her, after which I look away so that I’m not being a weirdo.

Once our helmets are on and the pitching machine is set up, we take turns using it. Both of us are quiet, which I appreciate, because I’m trying to figure out the best way to convince her to help me stop this wedding. She hasn’t outright said no, but she’s not completely sold on the idea, either. And I know Sam; she’s hesitating because she doesn’t feel like interfering is her place, but also because she’s a closet romantic. She’ll always want love to win.

Which is my way in, I realize. Because unless a miracle occurs, love isnotgoing to win between Maya and Chet. Though the other day at Joey’s is my only in-person experience with the man, I’ve heard enough stories about him that I don’t think my judgments are too far off. Not to mention that adding a baby to the equation is going to bring stress, sleep deprivation, and financial strain into the mix. Maya is lucky in that she can work from home—she does graphic design for a local chain of grocery stores—and her house is paid off since it belonged to her parents long before she ever got it. But what about Chet? He works part time, and she’s mentioned that he has a hard time holding down a job.

No. I’m not even being cynical at this point; I just don’t think this will work.

“But is that your call to make?” Sam says when I run through these points with her. Her voice is reasonable, but the little crease in her forehead tells me that she agrees with me. She swings her bat back and forth while she thinks, like the pendulum on a grandfather clock.

“I’m not trying to go behind Maya’s back and stop the wedding without her consent,” I point out, resting one elbow up on the pitching machine and turning it off for a second. “I’m trying to convince her to stop the weddingherself. I’m trying to help her understand that Chet—”

“Chad.”

“—That he’s bad news. And look, you were right. Getting him in the same place as Maya so that she can see how he acts—that’s probably going to be too hard,” I admit. “She can barely leave the house. But I was thinking…”

Sam raises her brows when I fade off. “You were thinking?”

A grin spreads slowly over my face. “Do you remember what she said? She said that unless she got a serious sign from the universe that this wedding was a bad idea, she was going to do it.”

“So…what, you want to send her a message from the universe?”