15. CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 15

“Even when it’s hard with you, it’s a little bit better”

Little Bit Better – Caleb Hearn, ROSIE

Deon

“ N athalie?” I scour the house, searching for any sign of my fake girlfriend.

For the first time in my life, I was annoyed to leave for an away game because it meant time away from her. Her bag is by the door, and a pair of light blue Converse lay forgotten by the kitchen barstools, the only evidence Nathalie is home.

A pit in my stomach grows as the silence creeps in.

Where is she?

My tone takes on a tinge of panic.

“Nathalie? Where are you?”

I’m flying into the guest room to find her when I hear cursing that would make a sailor blush from the laundry room. I lean against the doorframe, watching Nathalie crumble on the floor, frantically scrubbing at the sheets.

“Fucking hell,” she mutters, throwing down the sheets and releasing a groan as she flops on her back.

Glassy, bloodshot eyes meet mine.

“What’s wrong?”

Nathalie bursts into tears, fat droplets trailing down her cheeks and onto the floor as she spreads out on the tile.

“I’m a troll,” she wails, arm flying over her face. “And I ruined your expensive sheets.” Her breathing is erratic as she points a solitary finger to the pile of sheets. “They’re covered in my uterine blood.”

“Your what ?” I crouch down, gently peeling back her arm. Her lower lip trembles, and I drop to the ground, legs crossed. “Come here.”

She hesitates, likely thinking of the no-touching rule, but after a moment of deliberation, Nathalie crawls into my lap, head falling into the crook of my neck.

“Today is a bad day,” she whispers, and my heart clenches.

“Can I make it better?” Her head lifts in mild shock, and I rub soothing circles against her back. If she’s having a bad day, I’ll do what I can to make it better.

She bites her lip.

“This is helping,” she admits.

“What?”

“Being with you.”

I nearly crumble under the weight of her confession. She has no idea how her words affect me, how, for so long, I wanted to be someone who made a bad day just a bit better.

I have no response to her words, only the erratic beating in my chest.

“I-I need to go to the store.”

“I can go for you,” I offer. She’s not in the headspace to enter society, and going to the store is a simple enough task.

If it can take away a fraction of her stress, I’ll do it, whatever it is.

Nathalie sighs and shifts away.

“I have to buy pads. It’s okay. I can go.”

She rises, shoulders slumped. Even when her apartment flooded, Nathalie still held a spark of joy.

Right now, her joy is gone.

I want that back. I want my girl back.

In a single swoop, I launch her over my shoulder and drop her on the couch. She squeals, and the sound is music to my ears.

“Deon, what are you—”

“Stay right there,” I command, digging through the cabinets she can’t reach. I was waiting to give these to her for our show, but it’s clear she needs them now.

Nathalie curls in on herself as she sits on the couch, knees pressed tightly against her chest. Her eyes brighten when she sees what I’m holding.

“Will these help?” I ask, extending the box of macarons I bought from a store in Los Angeles and had rush shipped.

They’re supposedly the best on the West Coast.

Nathalie deserves the best.

She sniffles—once, twice, three times—before she cries anew, clutching the box to her chest.

“This is too nice,” she rises and pulls my sweatshirt, drawing me in. “Artichoke?” she asks, and I nod, giving her permission to do what she’d like. I hate those fucking rules, even if they make sense.

Her kiss is soft and probing and far too emotional .

I redirect to banish the feelings banging at my chest, begging to be heard and felt and acknowledged.

“Can you send me a list of what you need from the store?”

Nathalie nods, pulling out her phone, and I kiss her on the head. “Thank you,” she mumbles as Gordie curls into a ball next to her.

“I’ll be back soon.”

“What the fuck is ‘pads with wings’?” Declan asks, peering over my shoulder at Nathalie’s list as we stand side by side at the pharmacy.

Pads with wings.

Panty liners.

Super tampons.

Midol.

Blue Gatorade.

Gummy bears.

I realized I was in over my head when she sent the list, and I didn’t know what a ‘pad with wings’ is or why it has wings. My sister and mother never spoke much about the specific products they used, only if I ate their food or crossed them, I would regret it for the rest of my life.

Declan was my first call. He’s also a member of Book Club, so maybe he knows these things because I know less than I’d like, and I don’t want to let Nathalie down.

“ I have no idea,” I say, staring at the boxes upon boxes of period products.

“I only know about diva cups.” What the fuck is that? He clocks my look. “My half-sister mentioned it once at lunch, and I thought it was something we could bond over, so I read all I could find.” Sadness flickers over his face. “Maybe she wants chicken wings with them?” Declan asks.

I shake my head. That seems wrong. Pulling out my phone, I call Maren. She’ll know, and I won’t have to admit to my fake girlfriend I have no idea what a pad with wings is.

“Maren’s knowledge hotline,” Maren says. “You ask the question, and I tell you what Google could have told you.”

“How did you know I was going to call?”

There’s a noticeable scowl on my face.

“Call it my scientific intuition.” She pauses, snickering at her joke. “What’s up?”

“Nathalie’s on her period, and Declan and I are in the period aisle. There are so many options…” I trail off.

“You brought Declan!” Maren’s laughter fills the other side of the line, and if I didn’t desperately need her help, I would hang up. Instead, I wait out her laughter. She sucks in a few deep breaths and switches the phone to FaceTime.

Her face is beet red when I answer.

“What does the list say?”

“Is she laughing at us?” Declan asks, inspecting a box on the shelf.

“Yes.”

I read off the list and show Maren the shelves. She points out the items and how many of each to get. If she tells me to get one, I quadruple the quantity, just in case.

“The pads have sticky ‘wings’ that fold over on the underwear,” Maren explains when I ask about the special pads. I grab half a dozen of those boxes and thank Maren profusely. She’s a lifesaver, even if I’ll never live it down.

“This made my week,” she chuckles, “I can’t wait to tell Jack.”

I frown, and her laughter grows. Maren hangs up, and we make it to the register where the high school-aged girl’s gaze bounces between Declan and me as she scans the boxes of pads and tampons and candy. Declan snatches the bags, squirming beneath her gaze, and I quickly tap my card and scurry out the door.

“Was she judging us?” Declan asks.

“I can still feel her withering gaze,” I say, rolling my shoulders.

“Oh, the things we do for fake relationships,” he sighs.

I regret bringing him with me.

Nathalie sits up as the front door creaks open, hair plastered against her head. I stop in the doorway, breathless with how beautiful she is. I am in big fucking trouble.

“You’re back,” she murmurs, holding Gordie in her arms.

“I’m back.”

She scoots on the couch, and I drop the bags onto the coffee table.

“Deon.” She coughs to hide her laughter, “This is way more than I needed.”

I glance at the 14 boxes of pads and tampons, the four packs of Midol, the three Gatorades, and the family-sized bag of gummy bears. Maybe it’s a bit much, but I don’t want her worrying about not having what she needs.

“I may have gone overboard…” I admit, leaning in to brush a kiss on her forehead before remembering the stupid fucking rule and stopping at the last possible moment.

My instinct is to comfort her with physical touch, but that’s not what she wants outside of ‘sexy time.’ I need to remind myself of that.

Nathalie sighs, stuffing the items back into a bag and padding into the bathroom. While she’s gone, I tidy up the space, lining her shoes in the mudroom and returning her keys and sunglasses to the catch-all by the front door.

If it were anyone else, I would find the mess annoying, but I find her chaos wildly endearing, even if I’ve almost wiped out on a rogue Converse a few times since she moved in.

Nathalie returns to the couch, groaning as she sits.

I drop to the corner of the couch, pulling out a new puzzle I bought and setting it up on the coffee table, when her gaze becomes so heavy that I pause to look at her.

“Is everything okay?”

Maybe she needs something else. Pain medication or something to eat.

Nathalie pulls her bottom lip between her teeth.

“I-I know it’s against rule number two,” she starts, eyes flicking to the drawer where she stashed the paper, “but will you hold my belly for a little while? It helps with the pain.”

The question is so fucking hesitant that my chest cracks, and I spread my legs open and pat the space between them.

“Come here.” I slip a hand beneath her sweatshirt to palm her lower abdomen. “For as long as you need,” I respond.

Nathalie’s small palm covers my hand, and she intertwines our fingers.

This moment with her is more intimate than any moment I’ve had with Savannah, and my brain and heart are struggling to compartmentalize this, to put it into a box and label it as ‘casual.’

Nothing about taking care of her feels ‘casual,’ but that’s what I need to be. That’s what I said I could be.

Casual.

Just sex.

Those words are beginning to haunt me.

We haven’t done anything but kiss since Halloween, and the feelings are already deepening. I need to nip them in the bud before they get worse. Even with the rules she put into place at GameChangers a few days ago, it’s done nothing to banish the feelings. It’s because my feelings have nothing to do with sex and everything to do with who she is as a person.

I can be casual. If I follow her rules, I can do it.

Maybe if I think it enough, it will become true.

“How was practice?”

“It was fine. Spent some time with Tommy.”

“Who’s Tommy?”

“The rookie quarterback we drafted. Addie also made a new smoothie flavor today, and it was so good. I’m going to dream about the smoothie.”

Nathalie giggles, her body jostling.

“Do I need to be jealous of Addie?” she teases, “Have you found a new fake girlfriend?”

You’re the only one I want, I think to myself, The only one who has ever made me feel this alive in years.

“Not my type,” I say, tapping my fingers against her stomach. Nathalie’s head bends backward.

“What is your type?”

“Short brunettes with blue glasses and an over-appreciation for Orlando Bloom do something for me,” I admit, nothing but truth in my words. She is stunningly beautiful. Warm, brown eyes flecked with gold. Plump lips paired with soft cheeks. Long, thick hair, the hue of freshly brewed coffee.

Her beauty is a shock to the system, but her personality—her humor and compassion—is what I like about her most.

Nathalie smacks my arm, assuming I’m joking.

“Well, I’m into stubborn quarterbacks with geriatric cats, an endless stomach, and a concerning relationship with a label maker.”

She laughs deeply, and my stomach sours. I want her to be into me.

More than in a physical way.

I know she finds me physically attractive, but what does she think of me ?

Does she find me funny?

Am I overbearing?

When I walk into a room, does her chest tighten in excitement the way mine does when I see her?

We lay in silence on the couch, and I softly rub her stomach to banish her cramps .

“Why did your engagement end?” Her question is so soft, so low, I could pretend I missed it, but instead, I sigh, leaning my chin on the top of her head.

It’s time I told someone, and there’s no one I trust more than Nathalie.

“I found her in bed with my teammate, and her engagement ring still on her finger.”

I don’t mince my words the way I expected. Instead, the words are steady and calm, opposite to the rushing of my blood and the beating of my pulse in my ears.

Nathalie sucks in a breath, and her hand peels mine away from her abdomen to interlace our fingers.

“Her name was Savannah.” The words come easily now. It’s easier to confess in this position, where she can’t see how badly it fucked me up. “We were high school sweethearts, and when I committed to Texas, she followed me. I proposed our junior year. Saved up for the fancy ring I knew she hoped for and planned a perfect proposal for months.”

My breath is shaky, but with every word, a weight is lifted from my chest, as if telling Nathalie this secret, its grip on my life loosens.

“I almost threw up. I was so nervous. I knew we wouldn’t get married until we graduated—until I was in the NFL—but I wanted her to know I was all in and committed to her and the future I could picture for us.”

Her free hand runs down my thigh in a reaffirming touch, and I sink into the comfort she’s offering.

“I gave her everything I could offer.”

And it wasn’t enough.

I wasn’t enough for her.

There’s the truth of why I don’t date. I gave her every ounce of love I could offer her, and it wasn’t enough.

I won’t survive the pain of learning it’s not enough for someone else, too.

“Sometimes people don’t understand the value of what they have because they aren’t worthy of it. She wasn’t worthy of you, not the other way around.”

Tears prick my eyes, and as I hold her in my arms, I know, with no uncertainty, I am irrevocably fucked. No matter how or when this ends—because it will—I’ll have to go on knowing someone is going to meet Nathalie, uncover everything she is and offers, and realize she’s a priceless treasure. They’ll recognize that and guard it with their life.

“You are incredibly wise. Are you related to Gandalf?” I ask, breaking the tension.

“I think I would be a dwarf. They’re hardy, loyal, and love shiny things. I think that pretty much sums me up.”

She laughs, and the sound settles the maelstrom of emotions in my chest.

“Shiny things?”

Nathalie pops out of my lap.

“My rock collection! I have so many pretty ones. Want to see?”

She could show me a gray wall, but if she did it with that smile, I could look at that wall forever.