Page 143 of The Fake Out

Then I learned something very important: the amount of spit-up one small eighteen-pound human can produce is truly astounding.

Especially when said small human does it all over my shoulder, down my back, and a into a large chunk of my hair.

Damage done, the kid fell dead asleep in my arms. Which was kind of adorable and almost made up for the puke. At least it took my mind off the whole “flying in a tin can” fear.

Once at our layover, I had just enough time to switch out my shirt for a clean one (thankfully, I’d only packed a carry-on) and try to wash my hair. Except that in my haste to pack, my one change of clothing—my return ticket was tomorrow—I’d forgotten to pack a clean shirt. Who does that? Me. The only thing I had was a sleep shirt Sue had gotten me for Christmas. It read I’m Great in Bed. I Can Sleep for Hours.

Given the choice between the vomit shirt and my nightshirt, the answer was clear.

Next, I tackled my hair. Which resulted in me washing off half a face of makeup and crouching under a hand-dryer. It should be noted that it did not work. But it was fine. Surely, I’d have a bit of time to put myself together once I made it to Atlanta.

But then after we’d boarded the next flight, it departed over an hour late due to mechanical issues.

Mechanical. Issues.

So Bill, the middle-aged guy in the seat next to me, held my hand when we took off. He told me I reminded him of his daughter and she was a nervous flyer too. He started talking about all the best places to eat at while I was in town. The last thing I wanted to hear about was food when I’m pretty sure my stomach was trying to remove itself from my body.

I was never flying again without Chris. So, he was going to have to say yes.

When we landed, I wanted to kiss the ground but I didn’t. Because gross. I did text Mama to let her know I’d arrived safely. Piper and her rental car were already waiting for me in the pickup area.

“Are we late?” I asked by way of greeting as I slid into the car.

Grinning, she shook her head and shot out into traffic. “They were in the fourth quarter when I left. As long as we don’t run into any traffic, we should be great.”

So, of course, we ran into traffic. The kind of standstill traffic that brought out the road rage in better people than me. I took a deep breath and reminded myself this was for Chris.

“You’re looking a little rough,” Piper said once she took a close look at me.

She was not kidding. But it was what I had to work with. I tried to smooth down my hair and attempted to replace the makeup I’d accidentally washed off, but finally gave up. It was hopeless.

Piper swung into a parking spot at the stadium and called a friend to check the status of the press conference. I texted Mama with an update and imagined everyone in Two Harts huddled around my mother’s phone waiting to see what I said. It made me smile.

“It started ten minutes ago. We need to hustle.”

Piper got us through all the security checks and to the room in which the conference was being held. She paused outside the door to calm herself and straighten the jacket of her deep-purple power suit. Then she looked at me and winced.

“It’s bad?”

She tried to fluff my hair and wiped her hands off on my nightshirt. “He probably won’t even notice. He’ll just be excited to see you.”

“You think?”

“I know.” She surprised me and gave me a hug. “Are you ready? Do you know what you’re going to say?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know.” My stomach dipped. “I think I might throw up. What do I do?”

“That’s easy. Don’t throw up.” With that, she grabbed my wrist and opened the door.

We came in through the back of the room. In front of us, a sea of video cameras and photographers stood and in front of them, several rows of chairs occupied by reporters. In front of them all, a long table where six men sat. I caught a glimpse of Sherrod next to an older man who I knew was the Stars’ coach, and I thought I recognized a shoulder that belonged to Chris.

My whole body was strung taut with tension. I forced myself to take slow, deep breaths. Shook my arms out and tried to figure out the best way to weave around all these people.

Should I yell his name? Throw something to get his attention? Like, myself at his feet? What if he ignored me? What if he wanted nothing to do with me?

Before I could do anything, a commotion broke out at the side of the room. It only took a second to realize Piper and Doug were arguing. Or Piper was arguing. Doug stood with his arms crossed and his nose in the air. At first, it was hard to understand them but when the room cottoned on to what was unfolding, they went silent.

“…can’t believe you,” Piper bit out. “You are scum. To go on television in a disguise and imply the things you implied about your own client.”