“Tripp. Focus.” The sound of the knife hitting the cutting board resumes. “I think you’re going to have to show up for drinks in that outfit she wants you to wear.” She’s done with the potatoes now and moves on to carrots. “If that’s the only way to get her to agree, what choice do you have?”

“I could let the story die down and go back to living my life and not giving a shit?”

“That’s not going to happen as quickly as you think it is.” She pauses again, looking into the camera. “It’s too good of a story and there’s nothing people love more than the downfall of someone famous. Tripp, Dad and I saw some of those signs they had at the stadium at your last game, and they were cringe-worthy.”

Right.

Those signs.

The ones fans made that said “WE FLIP FOR TRIPP” and “WALLACE LIKES IT ON HIS BACK” and, my personal favorite, “HARD FALL FOR YOU #32”.

Constant reminders and those were the supportive ones.

Sometimes I hate that my games are televised—for reasons like this—because if my mother is mentioning it, there’s no doubt Dad will want to have words about it the first chance he gets.

I’m glad he’s at work and not on the FaceTime call; I don’t want to know his opinion about all this.

“It’s only a plaid shirt and a pair of khakis, sweetie,” Mom prattles on. “You look good in plaid. It’s not the end of the world.”

“She wants me to bring Babe.”

“The ox?”

“Yes. And hang him from my pocket and I’ve already let Chewy play with him twice, so one of his eyes is missing.”

Mom winces. Oh, she tries to hide it, but there’s no denying the awkward smile through clenched teeth.

That’s where my siblings and I get that sour expression from…

“People will think you’ve lost your damn mind.”

“No shit.” I roll my eyes at the sentiment, not my mother. “This was your idea—what should I do?”

Mom shrugs. “It’s one night. You’ll get tons of press, especially dressed like a lumberjack.”

God, I don’t even want to know what they’ll write about me, but at least the script will have flipped.

No pun intended.

“I guess so.”

“Look at it this way,” she says, using the knife to push carrots to the edge of the cutting board before dumping them into the pot on the stove. “At least you’ll have plenty to talk about while you’re sitting there.”

“She’s going to make fun of me.”

Mom cocks her head to the side. “Chandler Wallace—oops, sorry. Chandler Westbrooke does not seem like the type of girl who’s going to sit and make fun of you.”

True. But, “She didn’t seem like the type of girl who was going to toss me to my back, either.”* * *Me: Do you have time to talk?

I text Chandler even though it’s almost midnight, not expecting her to answer.

Chandler: You mean…on the phone?

No, I mean through brain waves telepathically.

Me: Yes, on the phone.

Chandler: Why can’t you just text me?

Me: You’re not even sleeping.

Chandler: So? You’re still disrupting my peace!

Me: I’m calling.

When I do, she lets it ring good and long before picking up.

“What?”

Oh, she’s answering like that now? Because she knows it irritates me?

I see how it is.

“I agree to your demands.”

On the other end of the line, Chandler yawns. “What demands?”

“Tomorrow when we go for our drink, I agree to wear a Paul Bunyan outfit and have my buddy Babe in my pocket.”

“You do?” It sounds like she’s rubbing her eyes.

“Yes. How does seven sound?”

It’s late enough that I can eat before I meet her there and early enough that I can still order food if I happen to get hungry. Also, I can be home, in bed, by nine at the latest if the whole thing sucks.

“Where?”

“I was thinking The Ivy.”

The Ivy is one of the most popular restaurants in town, an institution in this city. Old-school and exclusive, it caters to high-end, well-heeled clientele. Lots of athletes and celebrities can be seen hobnobbing and business-lunching their way through its palm-leafed green carpeting.

Interesting choice,and my mother’s. Since this was all her idea, I’m sticking to the plan.

“You’re going to The Ivy dressed like Paul Bunyan?” Now it sounds like she’s sitting up in bed—or at least, I imagine she is, wide-eyed and incredulous at my bravery. “Are you out of your freaking mind?”

Apparently so.

My entire family is. It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her.

“That sounds like a yes, you’re available at seven.”

Chandler laughs. “No offense, but I don’t think you’ve thought this through.”

“Trust me, I have.”

Over and over again, every possible scenario running on a loop through my mind, down to the paparazzi that are staples, planted outside the restaurant on a regular basis.

“I mean—that was the deal, so I can meet you there at seven.”

“I can grab you if you want?” Which would interfere with my being home by nine; however, it looks better if she and I arrive together and can be photographed walking inside. I could put my arm around her shoulders—maybe she wouldn’t elbow me in the gut for touching her—which would make a great photo op.