Daniel Becker, known to the world as “Becks,” always knew it could happen to him. But he had been lucky in life, lucky enough to get a full ride to college on a football scholarship, lucky enough to be a first-draft pick in the NFL, lucky enough to meet and marry the love of his life before he had turned twenty-three.
Except now, his luck had changed.
And that thing that he didn’t want to speak of, didn’t want even to think about, was happening to him.
Undeniable. That was the word Whitney had used, fear in her eyes, a question in her voice. Still not wanting to believe the worst.
“Ready, sweetheart?”
Becks started. Whitney stood behind him, dark hair drawn back into a wispy low bun, cocktail dress glimmering as the sequins picked up the low lamplight of their four-bedroom house. She looked exactly as she did that night, ten years before, when he had met her at a college fraternity party, except then she had been shy and overwhelmed, and now she looked sad and worried. He wanted to reach out and sweep the anxious lines from her forehead. He wanted to tell her that his head hurt, without that thing slithering between them.
“I’m ready,” Becks said brightly, and smiled. The movement sent a jolt of pain to the back of his skull, but he took care not to show it.
“The car’s outside.” She hesitated. “You’re sure, Daniel? You seem a little tired.”
“I’m not, Whit. You always think that.” He reached out and squeezed her hand, and she squeezed it back with a sigh.
“I suppose Evan wouldn’t forgive us if we skipped,” she muttered, leading the way out into the cool March night.
“Oh, never.”
“Have you called him?”
“Texted. He wants to give a speech later in the night, when everyone’s arrived.”
“I hope he doesn’t expect you to say something.”
That hurt, but he let it slide, seeing the quick anxiety in Whitney’s face. “No, honey,” he said. “Evan’s the brains behind the organization. I’m just there to stand around and look pretty.”
He tried to make the words sound light, but his head still hurt, and they came out resentful and petulant. He hated that voice. It was one he heard more and more often. Self-pity, the vice above all others that he wished to avoid.
“You’re the brains, and the money, and the face,” Whitney said, squeezing his hand as they climbed into the black SUV that was to take them to the party. “Evan couldn’t do any of this without you—don’t forget that.”
“And you think it’s a good idea?”
“You keep asking me that, Daniel. I told you, I think it’s a good idea because you do. Evan’s your oldest friend. He’s been working on the business for years. With your funding, and connections—well, I don’t pretend to understand it, but certainly, yes, I think it’s as good an idea as any.”
“A better idea than going to business school,” Becks said.
Whitney shot him a look of warning and passed him a water bottle from the SUV’s center console. Their driver, a thin man with a wispy gray mustache, was professional enough to read in their manners that he should remain silent. Becks studied him for a few moments, wondering if he would trade places with him, wondering if the man’s mind, old and softening as it might be, was stronger than his own. Faster. Cleverer.
The party was at the Eastwick mansion, or rather, the place formerly known as the Eastwick mansion—it had been sold in February, by John Eastwick Sr.’s widow and son, in a fit of caprice that still left tongues wagging. There were rumors that something had happened in the mansion, months ago, but those had been vague and unsettled, and the consensus was now that the wife was too distraught to try to take care of the sprawling family heirloom, and was going to pack herself up and move to a condo in downtown St. Clair, or, horror of all horrors, out to the city itself, amidst the skyscrapers and bustle and away from the sleepy, opulent, lakeside wonders of the town.
Becks didn’t much care where the party was being held—Evan had rented the mansion, had organized the party, had planned the catering and the sound system and all the other million little details. And Evan had joked with Becks that it was all because he loved pomp and grandeur, because he couldn’t very well start a new business venture with Becks, his friend of fifteen years (since they were both pimply high school freshmen, as Evan liked to say), without making a big fuss about it. “I love attention,” Evan would say, sighing. “You know me.”
Except Evan wasn’t like that at all. Evan was trying to help him, too, in his own way. To take his mind off of things, though Evan would never be so foolish as to put it like that. To bring Becks out into society again, to force him to mingle and interact with people who, if they had followed sports news at all in the past few months, knew all about Becks’ ignominious and sudden retirement.
“Shoot,” Whitney said, checking her purse. She clucked and dug through the layers of keys and receipts and lipglosses. “I think I forgot my phone.”
“It’s fine.”
He said it calmly—he thought he said it calmly—but Whitney tensed, eyes darting up to him. “Sorry,” she said quickly. “Could you call it? Please? Sorry, Daniel.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” he said, and Whitney winced again, gaze shifting to the driver, who was still pretending to ignore them. Becks cleared his throat. He could never sound right these days. Everything that he said came out angry, hostile. He would ask about the weather and Whitney would spook, telling him to change his tone. Change his tone? Half the time he didn’t even realize it had changed.
He called her phone. Seconds later, a peppy jingle started.
“Oh, here it is,” Whitney said, relieved. She pulled it from the seat, where it had wedged beneath her, and waved it at him.
Daniel noticed, as she settled back in, that she had scooted as far away from him as possible.
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