The words rang in Spencer’s head. She shook Yvette’s hand quickly, the champagne in her stomach rising back up her throat. My husband. Colin had a wife. But if Yvette was his wife, what did that make Ramona? Or Melissa? Or her? Spencer looked down at the baby, who was kicking its little legs and gurgling. And Colin didn’t just have a wife. He had a child.
For a split second, her gaze returned to Colin’s face. She’d assumed he was just out of college, but in the harsh glare of the parking-lot lamp, Colin looked different somehow. Older. The lines around his eyes were deeper, and tiny silver hairs peeked out of the five o’clock stubble on his chin. It was like he was suddenly a completely different person.
After a long moment, Spencer found her voice. “Uh, well, it was really nice to meet you, but I have to . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she turned around and fled, running past Range Rovers and BMWs. When she finally found her way to the empty sidewalk behind the club, breathless and overwhelmed, the faintest giggle echoed through the trees. She was too weary to even look around to see who it was. She deserved to be laughed at for this. She hadn’t won Colin at all. She hadn’t won anything. Like usual, Spencer Hastings had ended up with nothing.
Chapter 15
Quit Your Crying
New Year’s Eve morning, Spencer lay on the hammock on the back porch, turning the pages of Moby-Dick without really comprehending the sentences. When she got to the word vile, she uncapped a blue Bic pen and circled it. Then she circled the words nasty and duplicitous and deceitful. She had been doing this for the past twenty pages, circling every word that reminded her of Colin. It made her feel a tiny bit better.
Spencer had a heartbreak hangover. Her head was pounding and her eyes were so red she’d worn her sunglasses in the kitchen, ignoring the strange looks from her father. She’d cried herself to sleep last night—and then in the shower this morning, and again at breakfast as she burned her wheat bread in the toaster.
She folded the book on her chest and glanced at her phone, which she’d laid on the side table next to the hammock. No new messages. Of course there weren’t. Of course Colin hadn’t texted her. Colin was a player, plain and simple. And he was a cheater. He didn’t care about Spencer; he never had.
Still, his lies hurt. Did anyone tell the truth, ever? Ali had lied to her, conveniently omitting the part about how she was secretly seeing Ian when she’d chided Spencer for not telling Melissa about her transgressions. Even Spencer’s old friends had lied to her—and she had lied to them—keeping huge secrets during their friendship that only Ali knew. And then of course there was Melissa.
“Ahem.”
Spencer looked up. Melissa stood there, a cup of coffee in one hand and the newspaper under her other arm. Spencer flinched, ready for another showdown, but her sister’s expression was surprisingly neutral.
“Hey,” Melissa said in a tired voice.
“Hi,” Spencer said timidly.
Melissa sat down on the teak chaise next to the hammock and placed her coffee on the side table next to Spencer’s phone. She searched Spencer’s face. “You found out Colin has a wife, didn’t you?”
Spencer winced. “You knew?”
Melissa shook her blond head. “I was at the courts this morning and she was standing on the sidelines, telling all of his groupies who she was. And every break he had, she made him come over so she could straighten his shirt and massage his neck muscles.”
“I found out last night—after he ditched me at dinner,” Spencer admitted.
“He’s a liar in more ways than one.” Melissa leaned forward. “You know what else I found out? He’s not ranked ninety-second in the world in tennis—he’s eight-hundred-something. Certainly not good enough to go to a Grand Slam.” She reached for her coffee, took a sip, and shook her head with disgust. “He told me, ‘I’ll take you to Australia and France with me. You’ll be the prettiest girl at the US Open.’ And I fell for it.”
“He said that to me, too!” Spencer exclaimed.
Melissa clucked her tongue. “He probably said that to a million girls. He has the perfect setup—rich wife hiding in Connecticut, his pick of girls in Longboat Key. It’s disgusting. But there’s something even worse about him.” Melissa covered her mouth with her hand, looking vaguely green. “He’s registered in the Masters category at the tournament.”
Spencer squinted. “What does that mean?”
“Masters are for players over a certain age. Spencer, he’s thirty-three.”
“What?” Spencer shot off the hammock, knocking Moby-Dick to the floor. She wriggled violently. “Are you sure?”
“I’m definitely sure.” Melissa nodded grimly.
Spencer ran her hands down the length of her face. “I can’t believe I kissed him! He’s so old!”
Melissa thumped a fist on the arm of the chaise. “He had both of us completely fooled. And now we need to make him pay.”