Chapter Thirteen

Daphne was still sitting in her car in the VIP lot next to the stadium, staring down at her phone.

Good, Chris had texted, and then a smiley face.

A smiley face. He hadn't struck her as much of an emoji user, so the sight of it really threw her.

What exactly had happened in the last hour? She'd shown up for the interview and thought she was doing an okay job. Sure, she'd been a little nervous, had flubbed a few lines, but they were just starting to click when it had all gone south. She'd apologized, he'd shut down, and then he'd ended the interview so abruptly that even Greg hadn't bothered to try to smooth things over with her. He'd just left her alone with the techs to take care of her mic, stalking off with his cell phone pressed to his ear.

She'd only just had time to reach her car when she'd gotten that text from Chris. Where he wanted to talk about song choices and a book he'd read as a kid. It had felt like they were chatting about nothing, but she knew they were talking about everything, even if she didn't know what it all was.

And then he'd told her he wanted to be friends, keep talking. He'd asked her if she was in.

Her phone rang in her hand, startling her. It was Layla's number on the screen, and she picked it up on the second ring, her heart already pounding.

"Is everything okay? Is it—"

"Oh my GOD," Layla said, the word so loud it crackled in Daphne's ear. "I'm going to purchase a toll-free number, something like 1-800-NOW-BABY, and if there's an emergency with the baby it'll be the only number I use. Okay? Otherwise, assume it's just a normal phone call because I'm still a normal person who's allowed to make normal phone calls. Is that clear?"

"Absolutely," Daphne said. "Crystal clear."

"It better be."

"You don't really need the number to be toll-free, though," Daphne said. "If you're only going to use it for outgoing calls."

On the other end, Layla was ominously silent.

"Also, 1-800-NOW-BABY sounds like a phone sex line. But, like, a charity one."

Daphne could practically see her sister-in-law drumming her perfect French-tipped nails on the little lap desk she'd set up to use in bed.

"Because it's toll-free—"

"Are you done?" Layla cut in. "Because I did actually call for a reason."

"Yes, of course," Daphne said, staring back toward the ballpark. She could guess what that reason was. No doubt Greg had already reached out to Layla, said something about what a disaster the interview had been. So now if she hadn't managed to get her sister-in-law in trouble by her disgraceful attendance at the game in the first place, she'd definitely managed it by blowing this opportunity her sister-in-law had set up for her. What a wonderful aunt she'd make.

"First of all, I'm sorry that the interview was cut short. That wasn't supposed to happen, but it's not your fault."

"Well—" Daphne started to say. She had a feeling it was at least a little bit her fault.

"No, I told you he was like that." Layla was quiet for a moment, as though reflecting on her past interviews with Chris Kepler, the way they'd gone. Daphne had watched a few of them, actually, over the last few days. Sure, Chris wasn't always the most effusive person—he seemed adept at giving you exactly what you needed out of him and no more—but he had sat in front of the logo-printed screen and taken questions from reporters, just like any other player on the team. Daphne's interview with him had definitely been special. And not in a good way.

"What did you think of him, by the way?"

"Chris Kepler?" Daphne asked, more to stall than anything else. It wasn't like Layla could be talking about Greg.

"Mmm."

"He was…" He has beautiful eyes. "He seemed nice. Polite, like you said. He wasn't rude to me or anything. He just…"

"Ended things early," Layla filled in. "I know. And like I said, that wasn't your fault, and Greg knows that wasn't your fault. He said you were a little shaky at the beginning but then really got into a groove."

"Oh," Daphne said. "Thank you."

She'd felt awkward the entire time, but she supposed there had come a point where her self-consciousness was more about the general situation and not so much about the cameras. She'd barely noticed that they were there.

"They're wondering if you'd like to take over as sideline reporter for the rest of the season."

Daphne had been blasting the air conditioning in her car, because between the humid South Carolina night and her nerves over the interview, she'd felt like she was boiling from the inside. But now she turned the knob down a few notches, certain she hadn't heard her sister-in-law clearly over the loud rush of air from the vents.

"They want me…to talk about baseball?"

"Listen," Layla said. "I'm going to be straight with you. I'm the one who wants you to talk about baseball. The network just agreed with me to give you a try. I think it would be good for you, I think you'd be good at it, and most importantly, I think it would allow me to stay involved and not worry about my job."

Daphne wasn't offended by Layla's self-centered approach. If anything, she was relieved. It made sense that Layla would want to still have a lot of pull behind the scenes, and with someone like Daphne in the position, she could. The chances that Daphne would do Layla's job better than Layla had been able to were very slim. She wasn't a threat.

No, the whole thing made sense from Layla's angle. But what about from her own?

"I have clients," she said. "Articles to write, deadlines…"

"Okay, but do you like any of your clients? Do you want to write any of those articles? What would happen if you, I don't know, got hit by a bus and couldn't do it for a few months?"

It was fortunate that Daphne knew her sister-in-law was like this. She hadn't been a bridesmaid in their wedding because Layla had two sisters and a whole drinking-comped-martinis-at-a-Vegas-bachelorette-party friend group from her college sorority, but she'd been in enough of those rooms to know Layla could be ruthless. One friend had dared to say that strapless dresses were cheesy and Layla had firmly, matter-of-factly told her that she could take that energy outside. After the friend had flounced off, the clerk had rushed in with several strapless samples, and Layla had taken a giant swig of her champagne and said in a withering tone, "She wasn't wrong. Bring me something with a cowl neck."

"I suppose in the unlikely event I got hit by a bus," Daphne said now, her voice dry, "they would have to find someone else to write their blog posts."

"So tell them to do that," Layla said. "Daphne, this is a real opportunity for you—you have to grab it. When will this kind of chance ever land in your lap again?"

Layla had a point there. Even though Daphne had given up the idea of doing anything in broadcasting years ago—hadn't even known if she'd want to—this would be the closest she'd probably ever get. Having this experience on her résumé might open up other doors that had previously been shut.

"Also, the money is good," Layla said. "I'll have to double-check on benefits but I think you could be eligible for at least part of the season. No travel at least at first, but they may ask you to start doing road games, too, depending on how it goes."

Hearing Layla lay everything out made it feel more real, more possible. Daphne already found herself running through her remaining assignments in her head, trying to figure out which ones she could extricate herself from versus which ones she could grind out before she transitioned to another job. She didn't even need to know Layla's definition of what constituted "good" money—she already knew it would be much higher than anything she was used to. But still she found herself hesitating, having a hard time picturing herself in this new role.

As if sensing that Daphne was on the edge, Layla softened her voice. "I know it's scary, upending your life for something temporary," she said. "But the way you've been living since Justin…you deserve more than that. And I'll be there to guide you every step of the way."

Maybe it was what her sister-in-law hadn't said that made the biggest difference. Because Daphne could easily fill in the blank, could see the ways that she'd been living a temporary life for the last year, in a weird limbo state where she didn't know what she wanted or how to go after it. If this gave her nothing more than a chance to reset, to reimagine what her life could look like…well, wasn't that exactly what she needed?

"Okay," Daphne said, "I'm in."

It wasn't lost on her that it was the second time that day—that hour—she'd committed to something outside her comfort zone. It also wasn't lost on her that those two things were connected.

How was she going to juggle texting with Chris Kepler as Duckie, while potentially working with him as Daphne?

By the time Daphne had gotten home, Layla had emailed her a list of—well, it was tempting to think of them as a list of demands, like they were negotiating a hostage situation, but she knew that wasn't fair. Layla was trying to make sure she was ready to take over reporting duties by tomorrow's afternoon game, which was so fast it was making Daphne's head spin.

The first thing was an emergency hair appointment the next morning, which Layla had already texted her own stylist to arrange. She won't do anything drastic, Layla had promised, just trim you up and give you some tips for how to maintain your look. And before you protest, yes, your hair looks fine but also you're going to be on TV! This is a different level of "fine"!

"You can do this," Kim said, scanning over the list. Daphne had recruited her friend as logistical support for her day of preparations, but already it was clear that moral support was going to be just as important. "I mean, it's a lot…but you can do it."

"It's absolutely ridiculous," Daphne said, almost driving past the tucked-away salon with its discreet sign. She had to put her signal light on at the last minute and hit her brakes harder than she would like to make the turn. The car behind her honked, and she held up her hand in an apology.

"They're going too fast to see that," Kim remarked, and Daphne shot her friend a look.

"I think they saw," she said. "They made a gesture back."

"That…was not a wave."

Daphne ignored that, grateful that her car was compact enough to fit in the parking spot she was able to find around the back of the building next to the dumpster. Kim was already unbuckled and halfway out of the car when Daphne touched her arm.

"Sorry, I just need a minute," she said. "I hate driving to new places. I hate worrying about what the parking situation is going to be somewhere I've never been before. And I'm about to let this random person I've never met do god knows what to my hair, and—"

Kim laid her hand over Daphne's, giving a squeeze. "You hate change," she said. "And these are some major ones. But change isn't always bad. I mean, Exhibit A, you don't have to put up with Justin anymore. And by extension, that means I don't have to, which is a fun bonus."

And now I'm alone and live in a glorified dorm room, Daphne wanted to say, but she understood her friend's point, and was grateful for it.

"Now, can we go inside?" Kim said. "I bet this is one of those places that offer you a glass of wine when you walk through the door."

Kim was spot-on about the wine, even at that early hour. Daphne accepted a glass of water instead, since she was driving and way too nervous to be drinking on an empty stomach. Still, maybe Layla knew what she was doing when she had Daphne go to a hair appointment first, because within twenty minutes she felt so much more relaxed. The woman who was taking care of her was perfect, one of those hairstylists who can make friendly conversation but was also more than happy to just work silently, and Daphne found herself sinking into the sensation of having her hair shampooed by someone else, the peacefulness of being left in a darkened room with some leave-in conditioner or who knows what other amazing-smelling products sitting on her head.

Her phone buzzed from her purse, and she leaned down to check it. It was a new text message from Chris.

C: I told you about one of my formative books. What about one of yours? That Milo one?

If he wanted to be friends, he couldn't have picked a better conversation topic. She could talk about this for hours.

D: The one I probably read the most was called Mandy, written by Julie Andrews Edwards, who I found out only later was THE Julie Andrews from The Sound of Music. It's about this orphan girl who finds a cottage in the woods and makes it her own. I was obsessed with reading about her sweeping out the cottage and decorating it with seashells and saving up to buy seeds for the garden.

C: The rituals of it.

Daphne actually hadn't put that together, how similar it was to the comfort she took in organizing her own bookshelves or making herself a cup of tea.

D: Exactly. Sometimes I think I read books to vet them to reread, you know?

C: I don't know if I do know, but I want to. Explain that to me.

It probably sounded strange. It wasn't that Daphne didn't like that thrill of opening up a new book, not knowing what jokes were going to land and what plot twist was going to take her by surprise and how it was all going to end up. But it was all about those books that burrowed their way into your heart, that you felt like you'd carry with you forever.

D: Like reading a book the first time is like a perfect first date. It's exciting, there are sparks, you're discovering new things about the other person and yourself, you end your night thinking, WOW, yes, this is something special. But the point of a good first date is to set yourself up for more dates. A lifetime together, maybe.

She wished she'd picked a different analogy. Suddenly this felt like walking a tightrope.

D: So I just love finding books I'd spend a lifetime with, I guess. If that makes sense.

C: It does. Thank you.

She wondered what he was doing right then. Layla told her that the players often arrived at the stadium hours before the game started, getting in their batting practice and stretches and other drills before playing. She'd never realized before how all-consuming baseball could be, and now she felt like she understood more about why he'd be feeling so out of it if this one thing that took up his time no longer felt like a safe place to land.

C: You won't be surprised to learn that most of my reading choices were made based on page count. If I had to write a paper on a book, I was going to pick the shortest one possible.

D: I don't know, Catch-22 is pretty thick.

C: Well, that one had a badass cover. I also wasn't above judging a book by its cover (which I seem to recall is something you're not supposed to do?)

That parenthetical was impossibly cute. She would really need to be careful, if she was expected to see him later that day and act like a normal, professional person. She had no idea how she was going to get through it without embarrassing herself.

D: It's human nature. We all do it.

C: True. I do feel at a disadvantage, though.

Daphne took a sip of her water. There were cucumbers in it, which was a nice touch and something she'd only ever seen in movies. She was trying to remember the last time she'd had her hair professionally cut anywhere that wasn't a Fantastic Sams.

D: How so?

C: You know exactly what I look like. Meanwhile, I have no idea about you.

Some of the water went down the wrong tube, the rest of it dribbling down her front as Daphne started coughing from the sip. Her hairstylist poked her head in to check if she was okay, and Daphne was too embarrassed to do anything but give a weak thumbs-up.

"Great!" the stylist chirped. "Let's give it a few more minutes."

D: Right now, my hair is wrapped in a giant towel on top of my head. Very Brigitte Bardot, but terry cloth.

C: Sounds chic. You know what I mean, though.

Yes, she did know what he meant. And suddenly, she went from being a little freaked out—he knew exactly what she looked like, after all, even if he didn't know it yet—to being irritated. Over and over on those dating apps she'd had to fill in this kind of pointless information, sometimes getting into such nitty-gritty details she felt like she was describing someone else, crafting a composite sketch of a person she'd seen once in passing rather than revealing anything meaningful about herself.

D: What does it matter? If I told you I had blond hair and blue eyes and a 36DD chest, would you like me more?

C: No.

C: To be honest, I would think it was a little strange that you'd included your bra size as one of three details to respond to that question. But I wouldn't like you any less for that, either.

Daphne bit her lower lip, trying not to smile. She was still annoyed, damn it.

C: I'm sorry, I wasn't trying to make it weird. It doesn't matter.

This wasn't fair, and she knew it. She constantly tried to picture him as they were texting back and forth, wondering if a joke had made him smile, if he was alone or surrounded by people, if he was casually checking his phone every once in a while or glued to the screen like she was when she thought a new text might come in. And that was all when she had a frame of reference to work from, a very clear idea of what he looked like.

D: No, I'm sorry. I'm being disingenuous. I just don't really like pictures of myself.

C: I get it. If you'd rather, I'd take a picture of Milo, too. Or a particularly nice sunset if you happen to see one. The book you're reading. Whatever.

So, basically, an Instagram feed. Daphne almost texted that to him, as a little joke, but then thought better of it. There was something different about sending a picture to one recipient rather than sharing it in a public post. It said, Here, this is something I wanted to share with you. It said, I'm dying to know what you think of this. It said, This reminded me of you.

She scrolled through her photos on her phone. She didn't have to go back very far, since seventy-five percent of her pictures were of her cat, twenty percent of books, and the remaining five percent were screenshots of memes she thought were funny. She found a picture of Milo she thought was particularly distinguished, where he was loafed up on the windowsill, framed by the bedraggled houseplant he loved to chew on and a sliver of sunlight coming through the blinds. She'd tried making a clicking noise at him to get him to look at her, but he'd kept his eyes in little slits, unbothered by the silly human disturbing his peace.

D: Here's Milo.

C: Oh. I thought he was going to be an orange striped cat, like the one in the movie. You're right; sometimes it's best to leave a little mystery.

D: NOT FUNNY.

The hairstylist poked her head in the door again. "I think you've been marinating long enough," she said. "Let's get you in that chair and see if we can shape your curls a bit. Follow me."

Daphne felt a little wobbly when she stood up, like she'd been sitting in that dim room so long she'd forgotten what it was like to move into the light. She glanced down at her phone, which she still had clutched in her hand.

C: Milo is even better than I could've imagined. Thanks for sending.