A sixth onesie gets unwrapped, prompting excited chatter all around me.
I take a sip of my mimosa, which is mostly orange juice. My body is still recovering from Friday night. From the amount of alcohol I drank and the shocking revelation I married Oliver Kensington.
Every romantic relationship I’ve ever been in, there’s always been something missing. Something holding me back. A lack of trust or a lack of passion or a lack of interest, who knows.
And then I get married in Vegas to a man I’d known for less than twelve hours. It’d be funny…if it wasn’t a serious commitment that could have disastrous implications.
Sitting and watching my sister-in-law open different versions of the same gift I got her—because I know onesies are a popular baby shower gift but didn’t think they’d be this popular—feels a long way away from that Vegas hotel room.
But as Sunday afternoon creeps closer to Sunday night, it’s impossible to totally ignore what happened. I promised Oliver I would call him tomorrow, and I’ve never dreaded anything more.
I don’t understand how it happened. Me and him…married. Parts of that night are so clear and then others are a complete blur.
I remember talking to him in the hotel bar. The moment when I thought he was going to kiss me. And the moment he did kiss me is permanently seared into my brain. We did shots in a bar. Rode the High Roller and marveled at the view of the city. After that, it starts to get fuzzier. But nowhere in my recollection is there anything wedding-related. No chapel or Elvis impersonator.
We had to get a license.
Exchange vows.
I can’t figure out how two people opposed to marriage end up married at all, let alone to each other. I didn’t think there was enough alcohol in the world to make me say I do to a guy I hardly knew.
But for some reason, I did.
And he’s Crew’s brother, which makes it all even worse. I’m embarrassed—and ashamed—about how everything ended between me and Crew.
Crew never mentioned his older brother to me. I could have guessed they’re not close based on that alone, but Oliver confirmed it yesterday, with his matter of fact We don’t have that kind of relationship.
I wonder if that separation is by choice or default. Nothing I know about Crew offers any insight into who he is as a brother. And I know nothing about Oliver, period.
“Tell me you didn’t get them a onesie,” Rachel says, leaning in from my left.
I glance at April, who’s unwrapping a box covered with familiar pink paper.
“The woman at the store recommended it,” I whisper back. “It’s cute! It has ducklings on it!”
My sister laughs and then shifts back into her seat.
“Thank you, Hannah! It’s adorable.” April hands the little yellow outfit over to a waiting Eddie, who folds it up neatly and adds it to the bags of gifts they’ve already received. My mom, sitting next to him, dutifully writes down the gift for thank you notes.
I stand and meet my sister-in-law in the middle of the room for a hug. “You’re welcome. I can’t wait to meet him or her.”
“I can’t wait to not be pregnant,” she comments, rubbing her swollen belly.
I smile, ignoring the strange pang in my chest. Suddenly, it feels like everyone I know is settling down. Getting engaged or announcing pregnancies. Every time I go onto social media, every other post is an announcement. Even Rosie, who spent years dating casually, is in a serious relationship now.
April waddles back over to the front of the room, while I return to my seat next to Rachel.
“It is cute,” she whispers to me.
I roll my eyes and drink more orange juice.
Opening the rest of the gifts takes April and Eddie another half an hour. Three more onesies get added to the large stack by the time the last of the wrapping paper has been ripped. I’m going to have to buy them a better gift.
By the time the final guests leave, I’m yawning. Between the jet lag, time change, and stress, I’m exhausted.
My mom shoos us out into the backyard, declining all offers to help clean up. She always insists her favorite part of hosting is putting everything back together at the end. Since I rarely have anyone over, I’ve never put that theory to the test.
My dad’s behavior is even more predictable than my mom’s. He beelines for the mallets as soon as we’re outside. Croquet could challenge his family or company as his first love.
Eddie, Rachel, and I got him a custom set for his fiftieth birthday a few years ago, and it’s become his most prized possession. He buffs it and everything.
“Who’s playing?” he calls over one shoulder.
“I’m in.” Rachel trudges toward the blue mallet, her usual choice.
“I’ll just watch,” April says, sinking down into one of the patio chairs.
In the many years she and Eddie have been together, she’s only participated in croquet a few times. Her sweet, forgiving personality doesn’t mesh well with our cutthroat competitiveness.
“Eddie?” Dad calls.
After glancing at April, my brother nods. “Yeah. I call yellow.”
I roll my eyes as I kick off my wedges and pad across the springy grass. “Don’t call the same color every damn time. Or there’s no point.”
I pick up the orange mallet and hit my ball toward the starting stake.
My parents’ backyard is my favorite part of this property. Its square footage is rare for Los Angeles, especially considering they bought this property before my dad’s career really took off.
Spring’s approach means the air is perfumed with the scent of eucalyptus and lilac. Prickly pear and poppies and irises and succulents spill out of the flowerbeds, stopping when the mulch turns to lush grass.
My dad hits first, which has always impacted his color choice. He makes it through the first two wickets, which is a typical start for him.
Rachel sinks down in the grass with an exaggerated sigh.
First rounds tend to take a while. Once, he made it all the way to the opposite stake before the rest of us even touched our balls.
This time, he only makes it through five wickets before it’s Rachel’s turn to hit. She manages three, then Eddie is up. He only gets the yellow ball through the first two, bouncing off the edge of the white metal when he attempts the third.
“How embarrassing, Ed,” I tease, leaning down and using my mallet to measure the starting distance.
I’m pretty sure Eddie replies with a rude gesture, because I hear my dad say “Edward” in the stern tone that he’s used to chastise us since we were little kids. Rachel laughs.
I tune them all out as I focus on my first hit. The orange ball sails through the first two wickets, rolling to a stop in the exact spot I was aiming for. Eddie groans when I hit right past his yellow ball, easily clearing the third wicket as well. Then I pass Rachel’s blue ball, rolling through the fourth. I overtake my dad at the fifth hoop, then barely miss the sixth.
“Thank God,” Rachel says, dramatically.
My dad gives me a subtle thumbs up.
My whole family is tight knit. But I’m closer with my parents than my siblings, especially my dad.
Rachel is relaxed and independent. During her summer trips, we won’t hear from her for weeks. Eddie is busy with work and his growing family.
I’m the one who lived at home after college and who comes over for dinner once a week.
That extra time has translated into my croquet game. I’ve logged many more hours in this backyard than either Rachel or Eddie have.
Eddie and Rachel give up on making it through the course themselves and settle for sending wild swings toward the orange and black balls heading toward home. Fortunately for me and my dad, their aim is terrible. Eddie comes close to hitting me once but never manages to.
Hits are allowed but unsportsmanlike, according to my dad. Since our first family game, he’s maintained a motto of win with your own skill, not by bringing others down.
Considering how ruthless he can be at work, I think it was more a rule he made when we were younger and more likely to whack each other with mallets. And now that we’re adults, he still feels like he needs to stick with it.
It only takes two more turns for me to complete the course and return to the first stake. Once my dad manages to hit the final mallet as well, he walks over to me, leaving Eddie and Rachel to finish the game.
“Excellent game, Hannah.”
I smile. “Thanks, Dad.”
His proud expression prompts a guilty twinge in my chest. I’ve never withheld anything important from my father. And I think my marriage qualifies.
I know nothing about the process of divorce. I’m sure Oliver has realized the same thing that occurred to me mid-flight to LA: we didn’t sign a prenuptial agreement. He’ll undoubtedly hire the best divorce attorney money can buy to protect himself. I should do the same, and my dad knows a lot of powerful, important people.
But I can’t force the words out, no matter how terrifying it is to be tied to a stranger. Can’t bear to see pride turn to disappointment.
“I have a meeting with Logan Cassidy and his coach set up for tomorrow night,” my father says, oblivious to my inner turmoil.
“You finally hooked him, huh?”
“He’s smart to play hard to get. Sets him apart from Donovan.”
“There are already plenty of differences there.”
Trey Donovan is widely expected to go first in next year’s draft. I know nothing about Logan Cassidy except my father has a keen interest in him.
But this is typical for my father. Not only is he already looking ahead toward next year, he’s looking past the player every agency wants to sign. He always has a master plan that means playing the long game.
“Donovan thinks he’s entitled to play,” my father says, rubbing some dirt off his mallet. “Cassidy wants to play.”
“All the best players are confident.”
“So are all the best sport agents,” he replies. “Which is why I’d like for you to come with me tomorrow night. And why I think you should get licensed…and sign him.”
My grip tightens around the wooden handle of the mallet.
This is a topic that comes up every once in a while. I started at Garner Sports Agency as a glorified assistant. Worked my way up to more substantive tasks than filing and scheduling travel. But I’ve never gotten licensed as an agent, meaning I’d be able to represent athletes. It’s felt like a permanent step in a way accepting a job there didn’t.
“This guy is the real deal, Hannah. If you sign him as your first client, you’re setting yourself up for one hell of a career.”
Rachel approaches, her blue mallet swung over one shoulder like a polo player. “I thought you guys were over here celebrating. You’re talking about work?”
“Not anymore,” my father replies, patting me on the back and starting toward the patio. “Let’s head inside and see if your mother will accept any help.”
Rachel hooks her elbow through mine as we walk across the lawn. “You okay, Han?”
“I just kicked all your asses at croquet. I’m amazing.”
“You just seem… I don’t know. Distracted, I guess.”
I force a smile. Part of me wants to blurt out I applied to architecture school. And then married a billionaire in Vegas!
Just to have this weight off my chest. This crushing uncertainty of handling problems alone.
I squeeze Rachel’s forearm. “I’m fine. Thanks for checking. Just tired. I didn’t sleep well last night. Everything is fine.”
Rachel nods, believing me.
And I hope I didn’t just lie to my sister.
