Not My Match (The Game Changers, #2)(91)

“Did I?” I don’t remember. I can’t recall much of the past seventy-two hours. Memories play back in my head: me leaving Devon’s, grabbing my laptop and a few things while he told me to keep Red until I left, but I said I couldn’t do that and caught an Uber to Myrtle’s. I walked into her apartment, spilled my guts, then crawled onto her couch and tried to forget the world. I missed his pregame. I didn’t reply to a text from Elena asking where I was. I didn’t go to Mama’s yesterday for lunch, too tired to put myself together and face them.

“You need a shower. Pookie is offended. Not me, of course.”

I huff out a laugh, running a hand through my matted hair. “I’ll get up.” In a minute.

An hour goes by. And another. Myrtle comes and goes, offers me lunch—“No, thanks,” I say, and I drift off, my body bereft, my heart split open, my muscles and my brain so very tired.

What do you want most in the world?

Why can’t he wait for me? My hands clench, and I punch a pillow. He’s right; it isn’t fair to ask him to wait for me, to commit to a long-distance relationship when we’ve been together only a brief time—but when you know, you know—yet I’d barely see him. Sure, my parents made it work, but it was a different time, and my dad was gone only for months, not years.

Our phone calls would get fewer and fewer, him with football, me researching. I’d fly home at Christmas, and we’d have to scramble to see each other. The summer? Sure, we could meet, but what’s that brief time compared to being with him for real? I longed for him when he was in Miami, watching him with bated breath on TV, just to see his face, and I think I can go a year or more? Please.

I flip over and stare up at the ceiling fan. He’d let me go and move on, and I guess I would too. Someday. Would our threads bring us back together in the years to come? Maybe. Fate is fickle. Threads may cling to a true love’s heart, but with enough time and distance, they choose other people to love.

“Giselle! How could you let it get this bad?” Myrtle calls as she hobbles into the den from the bathroom.

“What’s wrong?” I cry out, throwing the covers off and sitting up so fast I get dizzy. My stomach rolls, nausea bubbling. Might be a good idea to eat something. Myrtle has been pushing food at me three times a day, and I’ve picked through it. A throbbing pain shoots through my head, and I grimace as I cling to the edge of the couch. Okay, okay, three days is enough time to wallow. I have to be better.

She points to her roots. “Gray!”

I squint and walk over to her in one of Devon’s shirts. I couldn’t leave it behind and stuck it in my bag. The fact that it was clean when I took it killed me. I miss his smell. God. I miss his eyes. His wicked grin.

“You’re pretty as ever.” I push out a wan smile and fluff her brown hair.

She tsks. “You should have told me how old I look. With the fire and the renovations, I haven’t had time to get it done. Lordy, John is already younger than me! I need all the tricks! He might get tired of the sex and take a good hard look at me. Can you drive me to your mama’s? You think she’ll fit me in?”

“I’m sure Mama or Aunt Clara will fit you in. Mondays are never busy.” I sigh. “I know what you’re doing, you know, trying to get me up and going.”

She shrugs. “There’s no shame in my game.”

I swallow and nod. “All right. Let me grab a shower—and take some Tylenol. You call Mama, see what her schedule is. I’ll get us an Uber, and we can pick up my car at the body shop, then head to the beauty shop.”

“Good plan,” she says in a voice that smacks of victory. “Glad you thought of it.”

“Uh-huh.” I trudge off to the bathroom.



Two hours later, we pull up in my white Camry and park in front of the Cut ’N’ Curl. The only bright spot in this day is that when I went in to pay for my repairs, Harold was working the cash register at the body shop. He gave me a wide-eyed look and begged me to not tell Mama about our recent meetings. Apparently, once he got Garrett’s payment taken care of, he resigned his other job.

My head pounds, even after the Tylenol, and I dig around in my bag to see if I have some extras. Instead, my hand clenches around my birth control.

“What’s wrong?” Myrtle asks, her hand on the door. “You just went white.”

I jiggle the pill pack, showing it to her, seeing her eyes widen. Licking my lips, I say, “I took my last active pill last Sunday, which means I should have started my period three days later, which was Wednesday. I don’t take the inactive ones usually . . . so . . .” My brain freezes, then unfreezes, as I count . . . “I’m five days late.”

“Oh my,” she says in an oddly serene voice. “Is that normal? I don’t know anything about birth control these days.”

“No, it’s not normal. I’m always on time . . .” My voice trails off as I set down the pills and yank my phone off the console and search for articles about my prescription, my fingers tapping.

“Are you pregnant?”

I shoot her a look. “I never missed a dose.”

“You’ve been having sex every day, a thousand times a day, right?”

My body clenches at those memories. I keep reading.

“His sperm is so mighty it defeated your pills.”