Hitched

by Dawn Rae Miller

  I rub the back of my neck and avoid his gaze. I really don't know how to answer him.

  "If we wanted to know how to more efficiently run a company, Ellie’s our girl," Brady says, trying to break the building tension between Fletch and me.

  "Woman," I correct for no reason other than to be bitchy.

  "Woman," Brady says, slinging his arm over my shoulder. "But really, Ellie, you're one of the guys."

  I don't know why, but that bothers me. I cross my arms with my beer still in hand. "Am I?"

  Brady recoils. "What did I say wrong?"

  "Nothing." And I mean it. I don't know why I'm so upset.

  Reid, Brady, and Fletch. The trifecta of trouble. There's no place for me in there. Besides, I've always been the sensible one.

  At the next hole, we tee off, one-by-one and drive our carts down to the fairway. My ball, once again, has gone missing. "I really suck at this," I say to no one in particular.

  "Only the golfing parts," Fletch says, handing me another beer. He takes my empty can. "You're drinking fast today, Ellie."

  I shrug. "I'm thirsty, I guess." The truth is that since I started hitting the road, I've been drinking more and more. Mostly out of boredom, but in the beginning it was to keep the memories of Fletch out of my head. Drinking has become my coping mechanism — something I'm not proud of. And the fact that Fletch pointed it out embarrasses me.

  I vow to slow down on the beers.

  It's my turn to try to get my ball onto the green. The guys let me drop a ball near where I stand on the fairway. I select my nine iron because it's only that, the driver, and the sand wedge that I've heard about before, not because I'm trying to be fancy. Hell, I'd hit every shot with my sand wedge if the guys wouldn't laugh at me.

  I square off my hips and shuffle my feet.

  "Here, Ellie. Let me help you." Fletch is behind me.

  "I think I've got this."

  "I think you don't," he says. "You're standing all wrong."

  I turn around towards him. "Since when do you know anything about golf? You're not much better than me."

  Behind him, Reid elbows Brady, and Brady nods his head. Then I see Brady take out his wallet and hand Reid a twenty.

  "What is that?" I ask, pointing at the money.

  "This?" Reid says, holding up the twenty. "Looks like a twenty dollar bill to me."

  "I know that smart ass," I say. "Why is Brady giving it to you?"

  Reid grins. "We made a bet."

  "About what?" I swear getting to the bottom of things with these guys is impossible.

  "How long it took before Fletch offered you his assistance."

  "I said five holes," Brady says. "Reid said three. So he wins."

  I drop my shoulders and tilt my head. My lips are taut. "Really guys? Really? I think Fletch has no problem keeping his hands off me."

  Brady's smile touches his eyes. "If you say so."

  A deep crimson colors Fletch's checks. "This isn't high school anymore, guys. You don't need to be making bets about Ellie and me."

  "Thank you," I say. It feels so weird to have Fletch and I on the same side. I turn around and re-square off my hips. I waggle the nine iron and plant my feet.

  "But seriously, Ellie, I could help you." Fletch is in danger of being clocked with my club.

  This time I spin around with the club. "You could help me? What if I don't want your help? What then?"

  Fletch looks taken aback. Like he's never seen this version of me. And maybe he hasn't. Maybe I've changed too much over the past two years, the way he has.

  "Then I don't help you." He says very matter-of-factly. "I let you be."

  Anger seeps from my pores. "Like you did before? You just turn around and walk away."

  Fletch draws his head back, like I slapped him.

  "Okay, you two. Let's get this game going." Brady steps in between us. "Ellie, take your swing."

  My heart pounds in my chest as adrenaline pumps through my veins. I hack at the ball, creating divots.

  "Damn it," I scream. "Damn it all."

  And here's the truth: I'm one second from falling to pieces in front of Fletch. I'm teetering between anger and hurt, and it's anyone's guess which way I'll tip.

  "It's okay, Ellie," Brady says. "So you suck at golf. There are tons of other things you're good at."

  "It's not golf. It's all of this." I flail my arms wildly. "It's him. Being here with him." Fletch is looking at me like I'm a crazy person. Hell, they all are.

  "Give me my beer," I say, and Brady hands it to me. I chug the rest of the can and a slight buzz sets in.

  "You okay?" Reid asks.

  "I'm fine. Perfectly fine."

  We play through the ninth hole without really speaking. Except in the cart. Brady is talking to me like I'm out of mind. "I know this is hard for you. I just didn't realize how hard."

  I've numbed myself with so much beer I can't feel my teeth. So drunk golf it is.

  None of us are hitting well at this point, and I'm crumbling. The wall I've so successful erected has huge chunks missing.

  I'm tired talking about me. "Tell me about Sophie. What are you going to do?"

  "I'm going to marry her and hope for the best," Brady's driving is more erratic now that he's had a few beers. "Who knows, it could be the best thing to happen to me."

  "You sound like your parents."

  "Well, yeah. That's what they more or less said after they got done yelling at me."

  "So they're not happy?"

  Brady snorts. "Happy? How about completely pissed. They've all but threatened to disown me if I don't man up and marry Sophie." He parks the cart. "And my company isn't exactly raking in the millions yet, like GroundFloor. So yeah. I'm kind of dependent on them for a little longer."

  "Where are you going to live?"

  Brady jumps out of the cart. "That is to be determined."

  "You mean you don't know?"

  "I mean, she wants to live in Paris, but I want to stay here."

  I scrunch up my brows. "How will you work from Paris?"

  "Exactly." He takes out his driver. "C'mon, Ellie. We're going to back everyone up."

  I tee off first, and as expected, it's a terrible effort.

  After I take my turn, Brady hits the ball, and it lands on the green.

  "Nice," I say.

  Reid and Fletch are ahead of us again, and we drive the cart down to meet them. I'm on my fourth or fifth beer now and am feeling more relaxed.

  I sashay up to my ball and say, God help me, "Can I get your help now, Fletch?"

  He gives me a look that can only be described as holy shit meets absolutely yes. "Sure," he says, his voice shaking slightly. Funny how quickly the confidant, cocky, CEO turns to mush around me.

  Maybe Brady is right. Maybe there is more to the story than I know.

  Fletch hurries to my side. He stands behind me, his arms reach around me, and his hands cover mine. "Like this Ellie." He toggles the club before taking my arms back in a large arc, up and behind my head. "It's all in the follow through," he says.

  I give into him and let him guide the club down to the ball. A solid 'thwink' sounds, and I watch in amazement as the ball zooms over the fairway to the green.

  Out of instinct, I turn and throw my arms around Fletch. "Thank you, that's the best I've hit all day."

  "Yeah, well. You're welcome." He seems physically uncomfortable by my touch and shirks out of my embrace.

  What the hell? He had no problem holding me close a minute ago, but now I'm toxic?

  "You need another beer," Brady says, and shoves a cold can into my hand before I can protest. "Your game is getting better with each drink."

  Reid starts laughing and pulls a joint out of his pocket. He grabs a lighter from his shorts. "I've been waiting to have this all morning."

  He lights up and inhales. When he exhales, a cloud of smoke circles his head. He passes the joint to Fletch who also puffs it. Brady waves it off.

  Oh, God
, he can't be serious. "Brady, Sophie's not around," I find myself saying. "Live a little."

  "Look who's talking, Miss I Never Smoke."

  "Right, that's my thing. Not yours. Stop stealing my thing." I take a sip of my beer. It feels so good going down.

  "Fine." He says, taking the joint. "But let's be clear. Ellie bullied me into it."

  "I haven't bullied you, dumb ass. I simply stated that I didn't want you stealing my thing."

  Brady inhales and exhales. His body relaxes. He puffs again. "That's mighty fine stuff you have there, Reid."

  "It's the rockstar lifestyle. Weed, chicks, and music."

  "Oh, that's a good one, Reid." I shake my head at him. "Do you think Paige would like to hear that? I think she's still into you."

  "Yeah, she is."

  "And do you like her?" I ask, feeling like a sixth grader.

  "Yeah, but my lifestyle. It isn't really conducive to having a girlfriend, you know."

  Fletch is hanging back, chewing on his bottom lip. I'm too buzzed to tell him not to do that. I'm too buzzed to do much of anything.

  Brady takes one more puff before saying, "Okay, folks. I think I'm done."

  It takes forever for us to drive back to the clubhouse. Maybe because we're buzzed and 3/4 of us are high. Either way, it takes a long, long time.

  Good thing we have a driver to take us home.

  Chapter Ten

  After that dismal display of golf in which I used an entire sleeve of balls, Brady finally allows me out of his grasp. It's a little after three, and we're all slightly drunk and/or high, but I’m not drunk enough to forget what Brady said about Fletch and me.

  Were we both missing each other? Is that what Fletch wanted to talk to me about? Not trying to get me to stay quiet about his rise to GroundFloor CEO?

  I push those thoughts from my head. If Fletch had wanted to talk to me, he could have done so on the ride out instead of shouting into his phone. He could have taken an interest in me.

  Then there’s the way he took my hand in the car – right before saying driving out with me was a mistake.

  And on the golf course, he held my body close to his as we swung the golf club¸ only to recoil when I went to hug him.

  Talk about mixed signals.

  "Rehearsal dinner is at six," Brady says to all of us. "Fletch and Reid, you need to be there at four. Ellie, if you feel up to it, come on down to the beach and watch the rehearsal. We're having a catered meal after, under the pavilions."

  "I think my beer buzz is making me sleepy. Very, very sleepy," I say, playfully slapping at Brady. "I'll probably take a nap. That way I can party with you monsters tonight."

  Brady kisses my cheek. "All right. We'll see you when we see you."

  I climb the staircase and am keenly aware that the three guys are watching me. "What?" I say, stopping on the step.

  Fletch laughs. "You better hold on. Your walk isn't much better than your swing."

  I groan. Brady and Fletch kept giving me beers while we were golfing, and I had way more than I should. So it's most likely the beer talking when I turn around and sit down on the stairs. "Can someone help me find my room?"

  "Up the stairs and to the left," Brady says, laughing. "I didn't realize how fucked up you were until just now."

  I stick out my tongue. "It's all your fault. If you weren't such a beer pusher, I wouldn't be like this."

  Fletch and Reid join me on the steps. Reid wraps his arm around my waist. "Come on, Ellie. I'll help you. I have to go upstairs anyway to clean up before the rehearsal starts."

  From what Paige told me, I know Reid is playing some of his songs at the reception. There's a big band for the main part of the night, but Reid is going to give a mini-concert. Apparently, Sophie is a huge fan.

  Fletch is right behind us, and a part of me wishes it was his arms around me right now.

  But it's not. He didn't even offer to help.

  Reid guides me up the stairs and to my door. "Do you need help getting settled in?"

  I shake my head violently, and the whole world spins beneath feet.

  "Whoa, there, cowgirl." Fletch says. "I've got her, Reid. Why don't you go get ready?"

  Fletch has his arms wrapped around me, but I can't enjoy it. Or really comprehend it. It seems like so long ago that he held me, but my body hasn't forgotten just how to fold into his. How to fit.

  "Ellie, Ellie, Ellie," Fletch whispers into my hair, and for a moment, I consider tilting my head up toward his, to touch my lips to his.

  Then I catch myself and collapse onto the bed. No, I won't give in to Fletch. I'm not going to make things easy for him.

  He doesn't deserve it.

  And I deserve more. Better. I deserve to be treated better.

  Fletch reaches behind me and arranges the pillows under my head. "You should sleep this off. Do you have any ibuprofen?"

  I roll over so I'm face down in the pillows. "In my purse," I mumble.

  Fletch must understand me because I can hear him going through my bag.

  "Here," he says. "Sit up." He's holding a bottle of water, which I didn't know I had, and two pills.

  I do as told, and gulp down the pills. Once, I would have asked Fletch to climb into bed with me, but those days are long gone. Instead, I touch the 'S' on the pocket of his golf shirt. His eyes open wide.

  "Do you still have the Stanford key chain I gave you?" I ask, tracing the letter with my finger.

  "I do," Fletch’s voice shakes.

  Something bubbles up inside me. Sadness? Hope? I don't know.

  "Isn't it funny how things turn out?" I say.

  "I wouldn't call it funny, Ellie. Nothing about this situation is funny."

  I sigh. The room spins, and my memories crash around my brain. They pile up until I can no longer ignore them.

  Fletch lying in my bed. Fletch kissing my shoulders. Us running away together. It all jumbles up in my brain, but the one thing I remember clearly is how he became the CEO of GroundFloor.

  His parents let it be known that if he returned home, they'd support his decision to attend Stanford. Return and all would be forgiven.

  Except he had to leave me. Something neither of us wanted.

  His parents couldn't even call. They sent emails instead. Sometimes a text, but it didn't matter. It was all so impersonal.

  But the message was the same: Come home.

  It was too late for him to attend Stanford that year, having missed the deadline, but Fletch was able to convince the admissions team to let him defer. Which was fine with me. It meant we had a whole year to spend together at Brown.

  He rented an apartment off campus while I stayed in the dorms, but most nights I spent at his place.

  When he didn't return home immediately, we wondered whether his parents would still be okay with him attending Stanford.

  Turns out they didn't care where he went, as long as it didn't involve me. They made this clear in their emails and in the shouting phone calls Fletch eventually had with his dad.

  I wasn't, it seemed, an acceptable girlfriend.

  The longer he stayed with me, the more reasons they had about why he shouldn't. The chief reason, in his mom's eyes, was that I wasn't Calista, while his dad thought Fletch was too young to be tied down to one girl.

  Maybe they were both right.

  Still when I kissed him good-bye at the executive airport where his family jet waited, I was excited for him to start at Stanford. I'd loved my freshman year at Brown and wanted him to have the same experience.

  I didn't shed any tears when he flew away because I knew I'd see him again. I believed we were meant to be together.

  While he was at Stanford, he'd write me these wildly long emails, telling all about his day and Brady's antics. He texted constantly and called in the evenings. In some ways, it was like I was there with them. A fly on the wall.

  I plowed through my studies, keeping my eye on graduation and getting to be with Fletch again.

  Sure,
he'd fly out to see me, and surprisingly things were getting better between Fletch and his parents. He no longer blamed his mom for anything, and instead saw her as a victim of her situation.

  "I don't want that for you, Elle," he'd written on several occasions. "I never want you to feel trapped by my life."

  In those emails, we talked about our long-term plans. After Fletch graduated from Stanford, he'd come to the East Coast to be with me. He'd take some non-GroundFloor related job, not because he didn't want it – he still dreamed of running GroundFloor one day, when his dad thought he was ready – but he wanted to prove he could make it on his own. He and Brady had hatched a few ideas, and both were eager to strike out into the business world.

  Things between Fletch and his dad, Will, were still tense, and while Will allowed Fletch to attend Stanford, he also demanded he stop seeing me. Will still believed Fletch should be dating lots of girls and not locked down with one who was all the way on the other side of the country.

  So our relationship went underground. The emails and phone calls kept coming, but Fletch stopped flying out to see me. Until my graduation week. Then he borrowed the family jet and flew out.

  When Will found out, he went ballistic, and told Fletch that if he continued to see me, he would have to cut him off. Disown him. Pretend like he didn't exist.

  Fletch said that was fine by him, and I panicked. I didn't want Fletch cut-off from his family because of me. What if one day he regretted his decision?

  What if he decided I wasn't worth it?

  When I brought this up to Fletch, he swore to me he would never leave me. That he didn't want the life his parents mapped out for him. He had to go back to Stanford to finish his senior year, but after that, he wanted to come to Boston to be with me. We made a five-year plan, complete with us getting married.

  I'd never been so happy.

  But then the unthinkable happened, and Will Colson was killed in a car accident just days after I graduated. Fletch immediately flew home, and the plans we made evaporated.

  I stayed behind, finishing up my graduation duties and packing my apartment, but as soon as I was done, I caught a flight to San Francisco. Upon landing, I was greeted by a driver – not Fletch. That should have been the first sign things were changing.