Page 14 of Faking the Pass

Eyes on My Own Paper

P resley

I could certainly have done without that comment—and the visual image that had accompanied it.

After my swim, I showered then went to the kitchen to make some lunch.

Rosie was reading in the living room, sitting sideways in the chair she’d apparently claimed as her own.

She was so engrossed in the story, she didn’t even lift her head when I entered the room. Which gave me the opportunity to study her bare legs draped over one arm of the chair as I stood cooking at the stovetop on the kitchen island.

She was a beautiful woman. I’d always thought so, but time and maturity had only made her hotter.

Sounds and peripheral movement hadn’t been able to break the spell of her book, but apparently the smell of cooking food did the trick.

Once the salmon burgers started sizzling in avocado oil, Rosie closed the book and wandered over.

“Smells good,” she said, sliding onto a stool. “You cook for yourself a lot?”

“Not sure who else is gonna do it,” I said. “I’m sure as hell not eating takeout.”

“I thought maybe you’d have a personal chef or something. You’re really particular about your diet, huh?”

“Have to be,” I said. “It’s part of the job.

Well, I mean I guess some of the guys eat junk, but they’re a lot younger than me.

If I’m gonna keep playing long enough to get my eight rings, then I’ve gotta get the right balance of protein, fat, and carbs—and get it from good sources.

And now I’ve got this injury to recover from on top of my age, so it’s even more important. ”

“How long is recovery expected to take?” Rosie asked.

“The doctors are saying twelve weeks at a minimum, but I think I can get back out there in eight.”

“Of course you do.” She smirked. “High expectations.”

I grinned at her. “Exactly.”

Rosie lay the book beside her on the counter, a napkin marking her place. I was surprised to see she’d selected one written by one of the lesser known historical fiction writers I enjoyed.

“Funny you picked that one,” I said. “Margaret Oliphant’s one of my all-time favorite authors. So funny and clever. What do you think so far?”

“Oh, I’ve already read it—many times. Oliphant is one of my favorites, too. Miss Marjoribanks is my comfort read. I figured if there was ever a time for it, this is it.”

“They should make a movie adaptation,” I said.

Rosie’s eyes lit up. “That would be amazing. I’d be first in line for a ticket.”

“Forget that—you should be in it,” I said. “You’d make a great Lucilla.”

Suddenly Rosie looked uncomfortable. “I love her character… but I’m not right for that kind of role.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it’s so high brow. I’d never get cast for it—even if I’m miraculously not blackballed. People would never buy me in an Oscar-contending film.”

“What? Why not? You’re a great actress—you can play any role you want.”

She cocked her head. “How do you know? You haven’t seen me act since high school.”

“Exactly. You were fantastic then, so I can only imagine how good you are now.”

Rosie waved at the air in front of her as if to brush away my praise.

“I’m better, sure, but… I guess I just don’t see myself that way. I mean, I’d be thrilled with steady work just doing fun movies like Once Upon a Charm .”

“That’s fine if it’s what you want,” I said. “But I think our interests and passions are like a roadmap, you know? I was so passionate about football, I made the decision to put it first, before everything else.”

Including you.

“There’s a reason that’s your favorite book. My instincts tell me it means something.”

“I’m not currently listening to my instincts,” Rosie joked. “They told me it was a good idea to marry Randy. My instincts belong in remedial education classes—like me in high school.”

The statement caused me to look up and give her a probing look.

“What are you talking about? You’re very smart. You always were.”

“You really don’t remember much about me, do you?” Rosie asked. “I may have had some acting talent back then, but it was pretty much all I was good at in school. There’s a reason I didn’t go to college—I mean, other than the money thing. No scholarship offers for Miss Two-point-four.”

She was smiling, but there was a hint of pain in Rosie’s eyes. It bothered me.

“Your GPA doesn’t necessarily indicate intelligence.

It takes very high intelligence to act,” I said.

“Not only do you have to remember tons of scripted dialogue, you have to understand the source material so you can interpret those words into believable emotions that other people can see and feel. What was your best class in school?”

“Other than Theater? English. But I completely sucked at anything having to do with numbers, so math and science classes were torture.”

Her cheeks colored, and she dropped her gaze to the countertop.

“Trying to memorize multiplication tables was a lost cause. Even now, I can’t remember numbers at all. I can’t do any math in my head—even the simplest equations. I’d be screwed without the calculator on my phone.”

Her hand started moving in the air in front of her, as if she was writing on a white board.

“It’s like, I see the numbers in my mind, but while I’m trying to add or multiply them, they sort of dissolve and blow away.”

Rosie’s fingers spread in a poof gesture in the air before she dropped them to the counter.

“That’s why I cleaned houses instead of waiting tables or working retail in L.A.. Apart from acting, I’m just a big ole dum-dum.”

Her smile and sing-song tone covered real pain. And I couldn’t stand to hear her talk herself down like that, especially when she was clearly so smart.

“It sounds like you might have a learning disability that was never diagnosed. Have you ever heard of dyscalculia?”

“No.”

“It’s like dyslexia but for numbers instead of words. There’s speculation that Benjamin Franklin and Thomas Edison and even Einstein had it. They weren’t dumb.”

She nodded slowly, listening. “Interesting. Well, I’ve definitely always been a words-girl with no head for numbers.”

I started to say something, then stopped, thinking better of it. Then I decided to just go ahead and say it.

“Speaking of words, I want to ask you for a favor.”

“Sure, go ahead,” Rosie said. “Seeing as you’re housing and feeding me, ask for more than one.”

“Try not to talk about yourself that way. Words have power, you know? You’ve gotta be careful with them, especially when it comes to what you say about yourself.”

Rosie’s face flushed.

Shit. I shouldn’t have said it. Now she was going to tell me to go to hell, and I’d probably deserve it.

But she didn’t. She just said a quiet “okay,” then changed the subject.

“So… let’s talk about you, Mr. Zen Mindset Guru,” she said. “Other than thinking happy thoughts and eating a perfect diet, how is your life these days? Is there a woman somewhere who’s going to be furious when she finds out about your unexpected ‘house guest?’”

I chuckled and shook my head, looking down as I moved the salmon burgers from the frying pan to the plates I’d set out for them.

“Nah. No one serious. I’ve had a few girlfriends, but they all didn’t work out for one reason or another.”

In truth, it had always been the same reason.

I’d had a string of unsuccessful relationships, all of which had ended because the women said I was too focused on football and didn’t have enough time and attention left over for them.

My most recent girlfriend had told me she felt sorry for the woman I did eventually marry because she was destined to be miserable and lonely.

It was pretty much an echo of what my college girlfriends had said. They’d all resented the time and focus I gave to football.

I hadn’t even bothered dating for the last year because what was the point?

Of course that meant I was pursued relentlessly by women who wanted to be my next short-term fling. It was actually pretty bothersome.

“Probably for the best,” I said. “I don’t think I’m cut out to have a family. If I want to achieve my goals, I’ve got to have laser focus.”

“Isn’t it lonely?” Rosie asked.

“Sometimes,” I admitted. “Maybe someday when I retire, I’ll think about it. But I can’t stop now. I’ve already given up everything for this career—I have to make it matter. ”

“What will be enough to make it matter?”

Rosie’s tone was innocent, but the question was like a dagger to my heart. It wasn’t one I liked to think about—because I didn’t know the answer.

“I’ll know when I get there I guess,” I said then set the plate of steaming food in front of her. “Eat up.”

That night while we were streaming a movie, the doorbell rang.

“They’re getting pretty ballsy climbing the fence and coming right up to the door,” I grumbled. “Keep your head down. I’ll check the ring camera. I may end up having to call the police.”

I checked the image on my phone and saw it was a man in a low-slung ballcap, holding several grocery bags and a suitcase. I turned the phone so Rosie could see the screen.

“Recognize him?”

“No. That’s my suitcase though.”

She looked excited, but the expression morphed into worry. “Think one of the paparazzi was able to get it from the hotel somehow?”

“Doubt it. Maybe it’s somebody Wilder sent. Hold on. Let me check my texts.”

My phone had been muted so we could focus on the movie, but now I saw I’d missed a call and a text from my oldest brother.

Sending someone over with Rosie’s things and some supplies to get you through the next couple of days.

He’ll arrive in an unmarked car around seven.

I gave him your gate code. They won’t be able to identify him and connect him to you.

Even if they somehow managed to connect him to my company, that’s as far as they’ll get.

No one here will give them any info. How’s it going?

I answered him honestly.

Fine other than running low on food—and trying to keep my eyes on my own paper as Rosie James walks around in nothing but a t-shirt and a pair of my boxers. Both problems you’ve just solved. I owe you big.