“You’re welcome. This is a big moment not only for Trey but for the family that supported him. It would be a shame for you to miss it.” Her smile falls suddenly. She pulls her phone out of her pocket and grimaces. “I’m so sorry to rush you, but they’re waiting for us out front. We have to hurry.”
I take up one of their bags before Sloane and I walk side by side, leading the way out of the terminal. My parents follow a few paces behind.
“How did you get them to take plane tickets from you?” I whisper.
She grins mischievously. “I told them the agency was paying for them, along with a suite at the Radisson.”
I look down at her, at the pleasure she’s taking in her surprise. At the pride in her eyes. “The agency didn’t pay for any of it, did they?”
“No,” she answers quietly. “I did. And it was worth it to see the look on your face when you saw them. I would have paid anything to see that.”
“I’ll pay you back.”
She touches my hand lightly where it dangles between us, her fingertips teasing the skin on the edge of the bandage. “You already did.”
I want to kiss her. I want to stop her, turn her, kiss her. Not because of the sexual tension always roiling between us, but because of a roaring rush of affection I feel for her at this moment. She’s a true friend, a part of my family as real to me as my parents following behind us, and I feel so much emotion when I look at her, I can barely stomach it.
“Thank you,” I tell her, fighting a new wave of tears that sting my eyes.
Sloane’s smile widens, her warm eyes dancing. I can’t stand it. I drape my arm around her, pulling her into my side in an embrace that feels more raw than any of the kisses we’ve shared or the sex we’ve had. When she hugs me back, her arm around my waist and her head on my shoulder, I feel so calm I’m floating. I’m flying, and I may not totally understand what’s happening between us or why I ball up the napkin in my pocket and toss it in the garbage as we pass, but I do know one thing:
This is getting right the right way.
April 28th
Auditorium Theater
Chicago, IL
This is it.
This is everything we’ve been waiting for.
Everything we’ve worked for.
This is Draft day.
I chose my clothing carefully, downplaying the fact that I’m a woman. I don a dark pantsuit with a brilliant blue cami underneath. No pinks. No purples. Minimal make up, minimal jewelry. Only a simple silver necklace Hollis gave me for Christmas last year and a small pair of diamond earrings. My heels are black and short. My hair is twisted into a loose chignon at the base of my skull. I do not carry a purse.
“You look nice,” Hollis tells me quietly. “Very lesbian chic.”
“Eat shit,” I whisper, heavily conscious of Trey’s parents standing only a few feet away.
“And the mouth to match.”
I look him over from head to toe. His black suit is perfection. Calvin Klein, I think. His tie matches his shirt. His shoes are perfectly shined. His hair perfectly mussed. “You look like a mortician.”
“Yeah, I know.” He thrusts out his right hand, adjusting his cuff with his left. “A hot mortician.”
“There’s no such thing.”
“Oh, what’s that, Mrs. Mansfield? Your husband left you a young, nubile, wealthy woman with a crippling sex addiction? I know a cure for that.”
“Another guy? ‘Cause you’re gay?”
“I’m giving that up. Can’t make it work, remember?”
“You’re giving it up?”
“Yep.”
“Giving up being gay?”
“That’s the plan.”
“You’re going after * now?”
He swallows. “Yup. Love me some trim. Mmm-hmm.”
“And boobs. You’re all into boobs now?”
“I love ‘em.”
I turn to face him, thrusting my shoulders back. “Touch mine.”
“What?” he laughs.
“Touch them. You have my permission to do whatever you want to them. Motorboat them right here in front of the entire NFL for all I care. Go ahead. Go wild.”
He glares at me for two long seconds before lifting his hand.
I slap it down, shaking my head in disgust. “No straight man would have hesitated. Not for one second. Go back to being gay. It’s what you’re good at.”
“Lame,” he grumbles.
“Tell it to God. He made you this way.”
“Hopefully he made somebody else this way that doesn’t wear tank tops to dinner.”
“Or cut his toenails in the living room.”
“Or cry after sex.”
“Or during.”
“Or before.” Hollis sighs as he puts his hands in his pockets, surveying the room. “Maybe I’m being too picky.”
“You’re not.”
“Then why am I alone?”
I flinch at his somber tone. At the stark loneliness in his voice. “You’re not,” I promise him. “And he’s out there. You just haven’t met him yet, but you never will if you give up. Or move to New York. I know for a fact he’s not in New York, so don’t bother going there.”
“Then where is he?”
“He’s on his way, Hollis. I can feel it. And until he shows up, you’ve got me.”
He smiles at me sadly. “Thanks, Sloane.”