Page 22 of Play Me

CHAPTER

THIRTEEN

Astrid

I lower the speed of my walking pad and slow my pace to cool down after a five-mile almost-jog.

The bright sun and clear sky give me a dose of optimism and vitamin D.

The guest bedroom that serves as my home office is just big enough for my standing desk, bookshelves, and a small sideboard that holds my printer and office supplies.

It would feel bigger if I could strip the nineties wallpaper and paint the walls a lighter color.

But when I proposed that to my landlord, I was met with a scowl and a hard no.

Forgive me for wanting to increase your property value. Oof.

I pull up the calendar I started for Gray last night and scroll through the entries.

He operates so differently from Renn that it took me a while to determine the best way to organize his schedule.

I could essentially make a list of the things Renn needed to do or address each day, and I could be reasonably confident that he would check them all off by the following morning.

But Gray? I’m not sure what approach will work best for him.

The only thing I’m relatively certain about is that it won’t be easy.

“He might be a shadow of the player he used to be, but he’s still great—just not as fit or focused as he once was. There’s so much untapped potential, so much room for greatness, and I think we can get him to come back around with a little guidance.”

Until last night, I was worried about Renn’s judgment.

Nothing about Gray told me that he was anything other than an angry, entitled asshole who was ungrateful, undisciplined, and unwilling to be guided anywhere, let alone to greatness.

I was convinced the rumors were correct.

After all, I’m a proponent of believing someone when they show you who they are.

But what if the sincerity in his voice yesterday, the hint of vulnerability in his eyes, is showing me a piece of his truth, too? What does that mean?

“That means he’s going to make my job ten times harder,” I say, changing the color I chose for his tasks from a bloodred to a slightly more subdued blue.

I glance at the time on my computer and then switch off my walking pad. My legs burn from the intensity of the last hour. I went a little too long and a little too hard, but I needed something to displace the energy that met me when my eyes opened this morning.

My to-do list is still ripe for the picking, but I know what I must do before I can get balls deep into Gray’s life.

I have to decide whether to call Trace.

The idea of hearing his voice makes my stomach tighten so hard that I want to hurl. I’ve sent him a text and an email to the last personal and work email addresses that I had from before we broke up. Unsurprisingly, he hasn’t responded. Now I’m not sure what to do.

Not calling him would be the easiest way to move forward.

Memories from our relationship barrel their way through my mind, elbowing through the barriers I set up to keep them out.

My heart races immediately, and sweat dampens my armpits and behind my knees.

I tell myself it’s from the last hour of walking, but that’s not true.

It’s a trauma response … one I haven’t quite worked through yet.

I can’t let that keep me from advocating for myself.

I pick up my phone and hop off the pad, feeling the baby hairs on the back of my neck cling to my skin.

I press each number with determination and grind my teeth, hating how defenseless I am when dealing with Trace.

He knew too much about me. He had too much access to my fears and pain—and he used them like a sharpened axe and hacked his way through my heart. Leaving me shattered in every way.

The line rings once, then twice. I shift the phone between my hands, practicing what I’m going to say, reminding myself to be calm and confident. He holds nothing over me anymore—no truths, secrets, or power. Nothing .

My heart lurches at the sound of his recorded voice instructing me to leave a message. I sag against my bookshelf in relief that he didn’t answer and hang up before the beep.

“Look at you,” I say to the empty room. “You’re all bold and brave in public, but a big baby in private.”

I clutch the phone to my chest and take a deep breath.

Before I can overthink things or get stuck in a bad place, I pull up the tab with the attorney’s information that Audrey sent this morning and place a call.

As it rings, I wonder what my friends would say if they could see me now—sweaty and anxious over calling my ex-boyfriend.

This certainly isn’t the Astrid they know.

“Good morning,” a cheerful voice says, answering the phone. “Thank you for calling Dixon Legal Group. This is Wanda. How may I assist you?”

“Hi, Wanda. My name is Astrid Lawsen,” I say, clearing my throat. “I was referred to you by my friend Audrey Van.”

“What can we do for you, Ms. Lawsen?”

“I received a letter from an attorney a couple of days ago regarding unpaid rent, utilities, and damages to an apartment that I lived in with a former boyfriend. They’re threatening to sue me, but the rental agreement was never in my name, and I moved out of there years ago. I’m not sure what I should do.”

“Okay, Ms. Lawsen. I can get you in for a free consultation with Dennis Dixon next Thursday at two thirty. Does that work for you?”

The word free is music to my ears. “That works. Absolutely.”

“Let me get a bit of information from you.”

“Sure.”

I answer a few basic questions and agree to email her office the letter I received. It’s the most painless thing I’ve done in a while. I end the call and feel a sense of relief, but also of being supported—of not fighting this alone—and I’m not sure which feeling is better.

I tap out a text to the group chat to let Audrey know I made the call.

Me: I got an appointment, Aud. You’re the best.

Audrey: Yay! I met Dennis Dixon at a fundraiser last year, and he was super sharp. If he’ll take you on, he’ll do a great job.

Me: Well, I didn’t talk to him. I do that next week. But his assistant was a doll.

Gianna: A doll? Are you talking about me again? Kidding. Glad you got an appointment, Astrid. Check your email. I sent you the question for the column.

Audrey: So I don’t get to know the question? Rude.

Gianna: The question is essentially this … A woman wrote that she’s in a relationship with her guy and she loves him, but she also loves other men flirting with her. She wants to know if it’s cheating or if it means she doesn’t love her guy to the depths of her soul.

Me: I’m getting paid to answer this?

Audrey: Oooh. That’s a tough one. I’d need more context before I could form an opinion.

I wander out to the living room and flop down on the sofa. My friends go back and forth on their first instincts about how they’d form their replies. I don’t chime in. Instead, I consider it quietly.

There are so many ways to think about this. I don’t know that it’s cheating, exactly, but it’s undoubtedly not an indication of a strong relationship. Or is it? Is she just being honest?

Audrey: What are you thinking, Astrid?

Me: I don’t know. Now that I have the pressure of answering it to the person instead of just spewing my thoughts, it’s not as easy as I imagined.

Gianna: You have a few weeks until it’s due, honey bun. Let me know if you have any questions.

Audrey: Let me know if you need to brainstorm. It’s one of my favorite pastimes.

Gianna: Mine is giving head.

Audrey: GIANNA BARDOT.

I laugh, imagining Audrey’s face as she reads Gianna’s message.

Gianna: I gotta go. Love you guys.

Audrey: Love you. Be good.

Gianna: Don’t take away all of my fun.

Me: xo

I open my email and find Gianna’s message. The question is there, in full, along with the due date and a legal blurb about terms and payment. It’s straightforward enough.

A bubble of excitement swells in my stomach, growing larger with each passing second.

My mind races with possibilities about how to approach this topic.

There are so many angles to take, so many ways to look at it, that it gets my creative juices flowing.

I remember feeling this way when I sat down with a pen and paper when I was a kid—for a while, anyway.

“What the hell do you have?” Dad sneers, ripping the small notebook out of my hands. His breath is hot and smells faintly like rubbing alcohol as he leans over me. “A journal? Where’d you get this?”

My stomach drops as I relive the moment.

That notebook was my refuge, the only safe space in my life where I could …

be . There was no right or wrong, no judgment or attempt at rewriting history.

In a house that was supposed to be a home, those spiral-bound pieces of paper I bought at the discount store with money Gianna’s mom gave me for folding some laundry were my soft spot.

I was in control and could live without fear.

That was over the day Dad found my diary.

My father flips through the pages as spit gathers in the corners of his cracked lips.

“Look at you wastin’ your time with this bullshit.

” He glares at me with bloodshot eyes. “You’re just like your goddamn mother.

There’s a sink full of dishes and laundry on the fuckin’ floor, and you’re in here cryin’ around. ”

He becomes a haze behind the tears fogging my vision. My heart and soul—my biggest vulnerabilities and darkest fears—are on those pages, and he’s wielding them in front of my twelve-year-old face like a knife. I feel my heart splinter with every page he turns and every word he reads.

I’m going to be sick. “Can I have that back?” But as soon as the words leave my mouth, I know I messed up.

His lip curls as he looks at me over his shoulder. “Nah. I think I’ll keep this. And I think you’ll clean this house top to bottom tonight, or I might have to tape these pages on the windows so everyone who comes by can read them.”

I shiver, hopping to my feet and heading back to my computer. “No,” I say to myself. “You’re not allowing the bitter actions of a drunk to derail you. You’re leaving all of that back there where it belongs.”

Gray’s schedule is still pulled up, so I go over it again.

His to-do items are blue, his rugby schedule is in yellow, and his personal items are in green.

It’s robust and mostly complete. Looking at it reminds me of who I am—a woman who is competent, confident, and who has fought for every crumb she has ever been given.

I’m a survivor of everything the world has thrown my way.

I attach the calendar link to an email with steadier hands and forward it to Gray. Then I open my text app.

Me: I emailed you a link to your calendar. I’ll be adding to it regularly, so please check it at least every night for updates to the following day.

His response comes back immediately.

Gray: Will do.

“Will do?” I flinch in surprise. “That was easy. Is he fucking with me or what?”

I tap out another message to test the waters.

Me: We need to find a time to sit down and go over things that would take too long to text.

Gray: Sunday is my only free day.

I laugh in disbelief. “Well, okay, then, Gray. You’re just cooperating now?”

Me: How about we meet somewhere around four o’clock?

Gray: Sure. Want to just come over here?

Me: Not really.

Gray: Stupey’s, then?

I mosey around the house and consider where I want to meet Gray. Stupey’s would work, but it could be loud, and it would undoubtedly be distracting. Alternatively, I have no interest in inviting Gray here. That’s … too much.

Maybe his house would be the best answer. Oof .

I grimace while typing out my reply.

Me: I’ll come there.

Gray: Don’t worry. I know you rolled your eyes. I don’t think you WANT to come here.

I can’t help it. I laugh at the cheeky bastard.

Me: Sunday at four.

Gray: Great.

Me: Great.

I’m not sure what to say now. I should put the phone down and get back to work. Instead, I hold the device in my hand and stare at the screen as if I expect another text to come through, even though I don’t.

Still, a couple of minutes go by, and my phone dings again.

Gray: Thank you.

I grin, typing out my response.

Me: You’re welcome.

Then I turn my phone off and focus on an email I need to send to Blakely.