The Buy-In (Graham Brothers #1)(41)

“It must be hard to balance it all,” Tabby says, and I can see her winding up her pitch. Looks like a fastball. “That’s probably why your sister wants to take custody of Jo.”

I was wrong. It’s a curveball, and I swing wildly and miss.

“Rachel is not going to get custody of Jo.”

“That’s not what I hear. But it’s a good thing. Babies belong with their mamas. You’ve done a good job; now it’s time to let Jo’s real mama step in.”

I wonder if murdering Tabby would hurt my chances of keeping Jo. Nah, it would simply be considered a public service.

Then it hits me. Ashlee said I should try to be more involved with Jo’s school. I grit my teeth, hoping I don’t break a molar. I definitely can’t afford a dentist this month. Or this year.

You can do this, Lindy. Just try not to look into her eyelashes, lest you be turned to stone.

“Actually, I’d love to help with Galaxy Day.”

Tabby blinks in surprise, her giant lashes waving like antennae. “Really? Are you sure you can spare the time?”

I already regret this decision. She’s liable to stick me with some kind of horrible duty like sharpening ten thousand pencils with a hand-held sharpener.

I heave an exaggerated sigh. “I just said I would help. Now, I need to go, Tabby. Do you mind letting go of my door?”

“Important journalistic pieces to write?”

That or today’s article comparing the Jonas brothers to the Hanson brothers. “Yes. That whole pesky having a job thing. You wouldn’t know.”

I immediately regret making that dig. I love working. I’d probably do so even if money weren’t an issue. But I definitely don’t want to devalue women who stay home with a child. In theory, I’m all about choices. Sometimes it’s hard to remember when I have so few of my own. And when I’m being made to feel guilty about the things I can’t control by people like Tabby.

Tabitha’s eyes narrow, making her eyelashes look even more spidery. Her smile turns sickly sweet. “I thought I’d heard something of you getting a big windfall. A winning lottery ticket of sorts.”

“I think I’d be the first to know if I won any kind of lottery, Tab.”

“I meant Patrick Graham. Isn’t he your ex? Heard he’s back in town, and I figured you might be cashing in on that.”

The accusation that I’d ever use him for money burns. I’m opening my mouth to snap something back when Tabby steps away from my car.

“I’ll be in touch about Galaxy Day. Bye now!” She slams the door and walks away before I can say things that are undoubtedly true, but which I’m sure I’d regret.

I’m fuming as I wait for an opening to pull out. Another ten cars pass me before I can finally escape the line.

Back in college, Pat educated me on cleat chasers. “Or jersey chasers,” I remember him saying with a bitter smile. “Take your pick on the name.” Women threw themselves at him—and, he told me, at his dad and brother—because of their name, their fame, their bank accounts. He knew it would only get worse as the draft approached.

“Some guys start their careers only to find out a few months in that—surprise!—they’re a baby daddy,” he said. Which only made our no-sex rule make more sense for him.

I was never with Pat for fame or money or anything else. It was always and only about him. That hasn’t changed. Not that I’m with him now, but I would never use him. I might be in desperate times, but they do not mean desperate measures. Not like Tabby implied.

Winnie calls when I’m halfway home and still hot with rage. I don’t even say hello but instead launch into a Tabby tirade. “You won’t believe what Tabitha—”

“I thought you’d want to know that your boyfriend is in jail.”

I have not had nearly the amount of coffee I need for the kinds of things people are throwing my way this morning.

“I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“Sure, you don’t. But your non-boyfriend and his brothers spent the night in the drunk tank, according to Chevy. I thought you might want to come by and gloat.”

I have to pull over into a bank parking lot so I can focus on the conversation. “Chevy arrested Pat? Here? For what?”

Winnie laughs. “Disturbing the peace at Backwoods Bar.”

I can only imagine the kind of trouble Pat would get up to at Backwoods Bar. The mouth on that man could incite war in Switzerland. Now that the whole town knows about the mayor selling to the Grahams, I bet it wasn’t pretty. Winnie once took Dale, who’s from Austin, to Backwoods with her, and the man barely made it out of there with his ironed polo shirt. Honestly, half the problem was that Dale is the kind of guy who wears ironed polo shirts. They say there’s no accounting for taste, and it’s definitely true in the case of Winnie and Dale, who is about as exciting as an unsalted Saltine cracker.

Is Pat okay? The errant thought is like a weed, needing to be yanked out by the root.

Pat is fine. He’s in jail, not the hospital. And he’s not your concern.

My worry quickly changes direction, and I settle back into the rage originally sparked by Tabby. Pat cannot keep showing up like this, making me feel things. Making me dream about him in a ringmaster’s costume. I have to focus on Jo right now—and only Jo.