Scene 33

The thump of a pounding bass vibrated the lamppost on the sidewalk before we'd even reached the pub door.

Dillon shot me a look beneath a raised eyebrow. "You sure you're up for this? It's going to be a melee of British athletes—guaranteed to be chopsy and hanging."

This last phrase brought me to a pause. "Chopsy and hanging?"

"Fighting and drunk," she translated.

"Oh." I laughed. "Yeah— Fight Club I can handle. Texas Chainsaw Massacre would be a different story."

It was Sam Huntley's thirtieth birthday party. A wee do , Sam had described it, when she'd texted Dillon to reiterate the invitation was extended to me. There would be nothing wee about it, Dillon had warned. But she'd also mentioned my attendance would likely make Sam's year—once again reinforcing my belief that I'd gone to sleep Kameryn Kingsbury and woken up in a parallel universe living someone else's life. Because in what reality did I exist where I was being invited to the birthday of one of the most famous athletes of the twenty-first century?

There was no way I was going to turn that down.

Well, unless Dillon had wanted me to. I hadn't been sure how she would feel being linked with me in public. We'd already agreed—in that easy way people set terms before things really matter—to keep our relationship private. I'd allowed her to cite my career as the primary reason. And it was true, while we may have been living in one of the most progressive eras in history, behind the scenes, Hollywood was still an unfriendly place for anyone who strayed from the so-called "normal."

But I think we both knew the decision was made for her sake more than anything. And I was all right with that. It was no one's business but our own.

"Would it be better if we went separately?" I'd asked as she sat on the edge of her tub, watching me apply my makeup. "On the off chance someone recognizes me?"

"Nonsense." She stood, stepping up behind me as I blended my foundation. "No laws against me bringing a mate along to a party." Slipping the strap of my dress aside, she kissed the top of my arm. "But you'd be daft to think you might go unnoticed. Even if Sam wasn't positively giddy over your upcoming film, there's no chance you could walk into any room and not turn the heads of everyone around you."

"I think you might be biased."

"Rubbish. I just have impeccable taste." She rested her chin on my shoulder. "You know, it took me a while to see it—the relation between the girl I fell in love with on a Pacific island and the woman in the headshots preparing to make her Hollywood premiere. But I can see it now."

I turned my attention away from where I'd begun to apply my mascara, catching her gaze in the mirror.

The previous morning, I'd told her I loved her while we were on the London Eye, and to hear her admit she felt the same came as an immense relief.

"And which one do you prefer?" I asked, my mascara brush still paused midair.

She shrugged. "I'm a fan of both."

"But if you had to choose," I goaded.

"Fine—this one," she said, her eyes gesturing down the snug cut of the cocktail dress she'd helped me shop for earlier in the morning, then back to my made-up face. " And the other one," she continued, "the one drenched to the skin, covered in mud, slipping down Ka'uiki Head, who let me kiss her in the rain." She leaned closer to my ear. "Along with all the other women you are, who I've yet to meet. I'll love them all the same."

"Keep it up," I'd had to tease, finding it suddenly hard to breathe, "and when we get home tonight, you just might get lucky."

"I'm already lucky," she'd winked and kissed my cheek, before disappearing to change for the party.

The pub was packed. I'd expected a few dozen people who looked like Sam had a few mornings prior—sporty, casual, laid-back. But the dimly lit dining room and covered terrace were teeming with bodies clad in sleek silks and vibrant vicu?a, most of which looked as if they'd tripped off a fashion runway and landed unexpectedly around the high-top tables.

I was grateful Hollywood had taught me that a little black dress never went out of style. It wasn't the nearly see-through number half the women were wearing, but it wasn't something I'd wear to Easter service with the Hallwells, either.

"Hello, Sinc!" an exceptionally slender man clapped Dillon on the back in passing as we worked our way through the crowded main hall. He offered her a high-wattage smile. "Good to see you, as always!"

He looked familiar, but it took me a second to realize why.

"Was that really Mo Farah?" I whispered as we continued to work our way toward the bar.

" Sir Mo Farah," Dillon confirmed.

I didn't know if I was more stunned that I'd just brushed shoulders with arguably the greatest long-distance runner of all time, or that he'd greeted Dillon by name, and she was completely unfazed.

People continued to greet her as she navigated the tables, searching for Sam. I recognized a few of them—Andy Murray, the Scottish tennis sensation, Rory McIlroy, the former world number one Irish golfer, Jess Fishlock, the Welsh football legend.

Most were hiyas and alrights in passing, and the few that detained her attention for more than a word or two, she introduced me to as "my friend Kameryn."

In response, I maintained a respectable distance between us—close enough that we didn't look awkward, but far enough apart to lose the they're-clearly-fucking undertone.

We found Sam on the terrace. She was tipping back a shot with a tall redhead, her dark skin glimmering beneath the light of the swinging glowsticks dangling from the framework of the outdoor bar.

"Well, behold! Look who's graced us with her presence!" She immediately discarded the shot glass and loped to intercede us. "Cracking duds, marra," her eyes swept Dillon's black t-shirt and distressed jeans. "Nice to see you go out of your way."

"I'm here, am I right? Not everyone has to look like they've been spit out a unicorn's arse."

Sam waved two fingers her direction—the English equivalent of the bird—before her gaze flicked to me. Her face was hidden in shadow beneath the brim of her checkered yellow fedora, but her smile flashed as brightly as her chartreuse pinstriped suit. She cocked a hip, tapping the glossed cement with one of her neon orange bowling shoes.

"Well aren't you a vision, my bonny lass?" She gathered my hand in hers, pressing it to her lips. "You're stunning, Miss K. I'd say you knock me off my feet, however…"

"A touch of déjà vu?"

Her Cheshire smile grew. "Radiant and cheeky. A woman after my own heart."

The fiery-haired woman beside her ah-hemmed.

"After you, of course, pet." Sam slid her arm around the taller woman's waist. "Imogen, meet Kameryn Kingsbury. Miss Kingsbury, my date, Imogen Howard."

"Goalkeeper for the Lionesses," I smiled, pleased to put together where I'd heard the name before. I recognized her from England's last World Cup roster.

"The one and only." Her smile was frigid, never touching her emerald eyes.

Oh .

I was taken aback by her unmistakable hostility. Well, in that case— one of two and only , I thought to myself, considering I was pretty certain she served as the second -string keeper for her national team.

The venom of her gaze turned toward Dillon. "You've got some nerve, Sinclair—showing up here."

"Hey now," Sam warned, "you know Sinc's my best mate—and tonight we're all friends." She chucked her chin toward the bottle of scotch I was carrying. A last-minute birthday gift I'd picked up on the way to the train station. "Canny good taste, Miss Kingsbury."

I handed her the bottle, my mind still working around the obvious discord between Imogen and Dillon. "Happy Birthday."

Reviewing the label, she turned toward the bartender. "Uncork us, will you, man? That's a mint single malt, alright."

A short pour later, we were presented with four tumblers of scotch on the rocks. Dillon quietly passed hers to Sam and asked for a water, which wasn't missed beneath Imogen's watchful glare.

"Rich of you, giving up the bottle now, Sinclair—"

"You mishear me, Imi?" Sam snapped, tipping back her glass before swiping up Dillon's. "It's my bloody birthday—and I'll be damned if we don't all get along."

The goalkeeper scowled but was wise enough to keep silent as the bartender returned with Dillon's water.

"Say," he paused, his gaze falling on me as he passed Dillon her glass. "I know you."

Oh, goodie.

Know and recognize were such vastly different words.

I forced myself to smile. "Sorry, I don't think—"

"I saw your photo in Daily Mail ." He dropped his elbows on the bar top. "Yeah, I'm certain of it—you're that American girl in Sand Seekers . Whole article about how you just finished shooting up in Aberdeen." Standing upright, he gave me a sweeping once-over. "Those photos made you look so much taller."

Um, thanks?

I started to pick up my drink but he fished out his phone, leaning the upper half of his body across the bar.

"Can I get a photo? My old lady's never going to believe this!"

"Um, sure."

He draped his perspiring arm around me, forcing our heads together. "Ace!" His phone flashed.

I resisted the urge to wipe at my cheek with the back of my hand.

"Gawkers look like stalkers," Sam cut in when he continued to stare. "The drink, man." She pointed to my glass, drawing him back to his job.

"Oh, yeah, yeah." He slid it toward me. "On the house."

"It's my bloody bottle, knob," Sam leaned over and snagged the remainder of the scotch, clinking her glass to mine. "Drink up, marras!"

We toasted to Sam and she returned the salute for me and my upcoming film, confessing that she'd been in love with Addison Riley since she first learned how to read.

"Not long ago, then, huh?" Dillon teased, earning a flick to the forehead.

I loved the easy friendship between them. The way they communicated through an unspoken language, with looks and gestures built from years of attention to detail. It was obvious how much respect they had for each other, even as it was demonstrated through banter and horse play. It was something, I'd grown certain, Dani and I would never share.

Lost in these thoughts as I sipped my whisky, I was startled by Imogen, who let out an ear-piercing squeal. She'd grown sullenly silent since her rebuke from Sam, but now her whole body brightened as she lunged across the terrace floor.

A moment later, she returned arm-in-arm with a strikingly attractive blonde whose plunging neckline on her silver-sequined mini-dress left little to the imagination. As the woman glided over on the towering stilettos of her knee high leather boots, she offered a brilliant smile toward Sam, which faltered immediately when her gaze fell on Dillon. Imogen tugged at her elbow, continuing to drag her along.

I didn't have to guess who she was. All of Europe knew who she was. Even if her face hadn't appeared on everything from train station posters to Gatorade commercials, it would still be impossible not to recognize the cobalt blue eyes and poster girl figure of England's pride and joy.

It was no wonder Kelsey Evans had turned Dillon's head. Hell, she'd have made Mother Teresa do a double take if she'd been strolling down the convent halls.

I mean, really— those legs …

Without further hesitation, she extracted herself from Imogen's grip, kissed Sam's cheek, cast a quick glance at me, and then turned to face Dillon head on.

"Hello, Sinc. It's been a spell."

Sinc . Everyone called her that. I'd heard it from at least a dozen mouths tonight alone. But somehow, from her, it struck me differently. It made me realize there was this whole part of her world I didn't share. I would never call her Sinc. It was like a club I couldn't join. A clique to which I'd never belong.

"Kelsey."

"Time for another round!" Imogen blurted, turning for the bar.

A beat of silence passed before Kelsey took a step forward, offering Dillon a side-arm hug—a clear peace offering amidst the awkward atmosphere.

"You look good." She turned on a smile, one I'd seen in her roster headshots, a boilerplate gesture I knew well. Every actor on the planet had one. Not too forced, not too broad. "I was sorry to hear about Yokohama." She seemed genuine. Nice, even.

Dillon's shrug of indifference was not convincing. "No matter. Can't win them all."

"Won't ever stop you from trying though, will it?" Her smile softened, growing authentic, before she turned to me. "Hi, I don't think we've met? I'm Kelsey."

"Kameryn." I shook her hand.

"American?" She seemed surprised, but there was none of the hostility as had been with Imogen. "Footballer?"

"Oh," I laughed, nervous, "no."

"Kam's an actress," Sam supplemented, sounding like a little kid with a secret they just had to share. "That's okay to say, right, Kam? That's not taboo?"

I laughed. "Only for my parents, who are a little less enthused."

"What brings you to London?" Kelsey asked. There was no hidden dig or covert agenda. It made me feel guilty, despite having no reason to. She was just nothing of what I'd imagined. There was no resemblance to the cocky, self-assured, occasionally belligerent player I'd watched on TV. Here, she was nothing more than a regular girl—no different than me—navigating the awkwardness of an uncomfortable breakup.

It didn't matter that she was dating someone new—that she was in love with someone else. It didn't change the reality that she still clearly cared about the person who'd made up her past.

I knew the feeling, and though the jealous side of me had geared itself up to hate her when Dillon mentioned it was likely our paths would cross tonight, I found I didn't feel that way at all.

"I was filming up in Aberdeen…"

"Lass is being modest! Not just any film shoot. Kam's starring in Sand Seekers! "

Kelsey's blue eyes widened. " Sand Seekers —as in the books?" She glanced from me to Sam. "Wow. I mean—isn't that huge?"

Imogen poked her nose back into the conversation, returning with two drinks in hand. "What's huge?" She passed a glass to Kelsey.

" Sand Seekers !" Sam hadn't lost her kid-in-the-candy-shop grin.

"Oh, God, not this again," the goalkeeper rolled her eyes. "I swear that bloody movie is all we're going to hear about all night."

"Wey aye, man!"

"And how do you two know each other?" Kelsey asked, the question aimed at me and Sam. Before Sam could answer, Imogen felt the need to interject.

"She's here with Sinclair." The statement was spat with such annoyance she may as well have rolled her eyes.

"Oh." Kelsey's canned smile returned. "Of course. I didn't realize…"

Behind us, through the double doors leading into the tavern, the smooth beat of Murder On the Dancefloor kicked on.

"I love this song!" Imogen clapped her hands, grabbing Kelsey's arm. "Come dance with me! Let's get this party started!"

With half-hearted resistance, Kelsey allowed herself to be dragged off as Sam was swept away by another group of friends.

"Sorry about Imogen," Dillon whispered, drawing her face close to mine to be heard over the music. "She's can be a real rotter—"

"—she's just protecting her friend," I cut her off, my fingers wanting to find hers, but remaining obediently by my side. I didn't have to look to know Kelsey's eyes were still on us, stealing glances through the door. "I won't fault her there."

Obscured amongst the crowd of people snaking their way toward the bar, she let her fingertips graze mine. "You know, we don't have to stay too long..."

"It's your best friend's birthday," I scolded.

"Yeah, and? She's got a couple hundred people who want her attention tonight—I just want yours."

"Worried I'm going to take Sam up on her offer to find me someone dishier to leave with?" I teased.

Dillon lifted a bold brow. "Not a chance."

I laughed. "Has anyone ever told you you have a bit of an ego, Dillon Sinclair?" I slid my thumb to her palm, trailing it to brush the soft skin of her wrist.

"Did you see the woman I arrived with?" she whispered, closing her fingers around my hand. "How could I not let that go to my head?"

"Please." I rolled my eyes. "Flattery will get you nowhere."

"On the contrary—I think it will get me exactly where I want to be."

Still pinned between two groups of jostling, oblivious partygoers, she snuck a hand onto my hip. "If we go now, we can make the next train to Waterloo."

I'd have been willing to meet her in homeroom closet after study hall with the direction her hand was traveling, but sweet vengeance got the better of me. "If I recall correctly," I said, drumming up a coy smile, "you once made me sit through an entire seven course meal, a game of Two Truths , after dinner drinks, and dessert, all while you chatted up my ex-boyfriend, before allowing us to leave." I made to step past her, pausing only to whisper in her ear, "payback's a bitch," before I straightened and said brightly, "now, go have some fun with your friends!" and strolled to the bar.

An entire Spice Girls soundtrack later, I stood nursing a watered-down gintini, watching Dillon clown around with Sam on the dance floor. Sam was blitzed, and Dillon couldn't dance, but neither seemed to care. It felt good to see Dillon having so much fun. To see her laughing. To see her happy.

"You should go and dance with her."

I hadn't noticed Kelsey come up beside me, where I'd found a quiet space at the end of the indoor bar.

Startled, I struggled through an uncomfortable laugh. "Oh, I'm not—it's, um—we're not like that."

Like that. For real, Kam? What was this, second grade?

"Ah." Kelsey leaned against the bar top. "Does she know that?"

"Come again?"

"Does she know you two aren't—" she paused with her glass at her lips, "— like that ?"

Ah, yes . Here we were. The jealous ex and the next. Just the thing I would have preferred to avoid. I opened my mouth to protest, but she cut me off.

"Look—I know you're sleeping with her. I could read it all over her face the moment I walked through the door. There's no point debating it."

"Oh-kay," I drew out. She was so blunt, I didn't know what else to say. "Sorry," I added, after a beat of silence, even though the only thing I was sorry about was being unable to find a polite way to excuse myself from this conversation.

"Don't be. I'm relieved." She tipped back her drink, her pink manicured nails a unique dichotomy to the healing turf rash running down her forearm.

Surprise must have shown on my face. It wasn't what I'd expected her to say.

"Don't get me wrong—she cut me pretty deep. It took a long time to get over her, and the way she left things." A streak of condensation dripped off her glass. She dabbed at it carelessly. "But I'm really happy now—I, uh," glancing around, she lowered her voice, "I actually just got engaged. We've kept it quiet. I wasn't…" her gaze drifted across the bar to where Dillon was patiently steering an extremely inebriated Sam off the dance floor. "I wasn't sure how she'd take the news." She looked back at me. "So it was good, seeing her with you tonight. It's obvious you're more to her than just a weekend fling."

I looked away, feeling guilty about having misread the jealous-girlfriend thing. I was also a little concerned with how easily she'd seen through me.

"So much for keeping that on the down low," I tried to joke, but didn't quite succeed.

Kelsey smiled. "I doubt anyone else was paying that close attention. I just—I've seen her with enough women over the last couple of years to know—and tonight she just seemed different. It's been a long time since she's looked so happy." She let out a short breath. "Sorry, I guess I just—I still really want the best for her. When Sam called me last week…" she tapped her nails against the bottom of her glass. "I know it's no longer my place, but I still worry about her sometimes. I used to think she was indomitable. That nothing could bring her down. But she's too hard on herself, you know? Sometimes I think she needs someone to remind her life isn't just about the finish line."

It was an interesting outlook, I thought, from someone I imagined was as competitive as Kelsey Evans. But then again, I knew it was possible to be competitive without turning it into an obsession. Dillon, no question, bordered on the latter.

But we all had our things, didn't we? Our highs and lows. Our ups and downs.

"Anyhow," Kelsey's laugh was nervous, a sound that came as a contradiction from the perfection of her flawless lips, "now that I've made things super weird…" She shifted the conversation, asking me about Sand Seekers , and talking about playing in the WSL. She offered to get me tickets to a Chelsea match and I congratulated her on her engagement—Abby Sawyer was a legend on the US team.

I'd have to come and meet her, Kelsey insisted. One day when I was in town.

We chatted for a while longer, through one gintini too many, and by the time I left the tavern, it was me Dillon was inelegantly pouring into a cab.

"It's what you get, Kam-Kameryn," she needled as she guided me through the apartment door, "trying to win a drinking match with an English footballer."

There was something in her tone that sobered me momentarily. "Are you mad she was friendly to me?"

"No," she tossed her keys onto the dresser. "I expected nothing less. Kelsey's a good person." Even in my liquor-induced daze, I was aware of an uncommon tightness in her movements as she stopped to draw the curtains. After a brief silence, she turned to catch my eye. "So in this friendly chat, did you learn anything new about me?"

"It wasn't like that, Dillon. She was nice. She seems to really care about you."

"Worry about me, you mean."

"No." I paused. "Okay, yes, that too. I think she's just worried you put too much pressure on yourself."

"Well, whatever she said, take it with a pinch of salt—no matter what she thinks, Kelsey Evans isn't exactly the know-all authority on me."

I watched her dexterous hands struggle with the straps on my shoes. "Dillon." She didn't look up. "You do know there's more to life than winning, right?"

She tugged the buckle loose. "Another life message you learned from your new best friend?"

I let it go. I was drunk. She was irritable. The conversation was going nowhere. By the time she'd gone to shower, I'd passed out.

When I woke in the morning, my head celebrating the coming of dawn like a toddler who'd gotten hold of a bass drum, there was a note on her pillow.

Gone on a long run. Back this afternoon. Leeds, T-minus 23 days. Then, at the bottom, hastily scrawled as an afterthought, xoxo.

Apparently, she'd forgotten we were supposed to have breakfast with Sam.