The Better Half(47)
“Well, that will save you money and still set a nice foundation for your marriage,” I suggest, because Marisol is too busy choking down her fit of laughter.
Ignoring me, Roan continues, “So I had a thought, Nina.” I’m unsure which is worse, spiraling Roan or thinking Roan. “What if we have a double spring wedding to cut down on costs?”
“With who?” I ask. Marisol lets loose howling.
“With you! The one who decided to do it dyslexic and get knocked up first.”
“You two have to stop! I’m trying not to pee my pants in public,” Marisol gasps out, tears running down her cheeks.
“No way. I’m not getting married anytime soon. And I’m definitely not getting married pushing nine months pregnant.”
“So that’s it? You’re going to let me walk down the aisle, alone, surrounded by penny slots?”
“Cha ching!” Marisol belts out, mimicking pulling down a machine arm. Not helpful.
“What’s going on down there?” Marisol nods to the bottom of the bleachers, knowing we should probably change the subject from Roan’s nuptials lest he also find out Marisol and I have a bet going that he and Tate won’t make it through New Year’s. I assume Marisol has laid eyes on Xandra and her current goth wardrobe fit for a funeral procession. My need for consoling over my brooding daughter trumps Roan’s wedding woes, and I’m instantly bumped to the front of the friendship line.
“What are Jared and Winn doing down there cuddled up on the team bench?” Roan asks, following Marisol’s sight line. I’m looking around the gym for Xandra, but my eyes land on the mismatched couple hunkered over clipboards, furiously writing after a three-point shot is missed by a starting Royal-Hawkins junior.
“A high school basketball game is an odd choice for a date with your closet sugar daddy. Or I should say, not so closeted anymore,” Roan states more than speculates. I wave my fingers, signaling Roan to lower his voice.
“What? I’m just serving the tea while it’s hot. Jared’s a first-year teacher in pricey Pasadena. You know he’s living in a two-bedroom with three other people, barely making ends meet. Someone needs to take care of that Adonis, otherwise it’s a waste of a flawless physique.”
“Is Jared the varsity coach and Winn the helicopter parent assisting him?” Marisol asks, more interested in the ins and outs of high school sports than I ever would have given her credit for. “I know you didn’t cave and give that kid the head coaching position when he whined for it earlier this fall,” Marisol insists, fishing around for the chink in my leadership chain.
“Absolutely not. He’s still in charge of coaching our middle schoolers. He doesn’t even particularly like the varsity coach, so I have no idea why he would be down there on the bench. Or why Winn’s with him.”
“Weird,” Roan offers as his final thought on a topic he’s quickly lost interest in. He wistfully returns to the half-built wedding website on his phone. Marisol shoots excuse me eyes in my direction. She’s the only person who knows what went down in the November board meeting when Winn showed up late from his three-day basketball playdate with Jared.
Lethargy, uncertainty, or the three slices of pizza I ate for dinner—something is keeping me from leaving my perch and marching down to find out more about the Winn-Jared bromance. The “should I stay or should I go” question clouds my brain when I hear what sounds like a pair of pointy heels climbing the bleachers heading right for me. I pull my jacket tight to hide my midsection when I see Courtney Dunn laser in on the spot next to me. Is she climbing all the way up here to have a better vantage point on the game, or on Winn Hawkins? Maybe Marisol was right and Courtney’s persistence to join the board is akin to a fatal attraction plot line. Oof, our team just missed two baskets in a row. Even I know that ain’t good, but why do Jared and Winn whisper to each other and scribble notes after each lost point?
“Oh, Nina, so glad we can catch up before the holidays and before I officially join the board in January.” Good Lord those are some killer stiletto knee-high boots in olive suede Courtney’s sporting. They even look comfortable. I elbow Marisol and give her a quick nod to take a look. Her jaw drops in jealousy.
Marisol and Roan slide over several inches to make room for Courtney in our row. “Good to see you, Courtney. Do you and the family have exciting plans for the holidays?” I ask, shifting gears into my polished head of school voice. I know the answer, of course they do. People like the Dunns are always scheduled up on school breaks, but I need a decoy conversation before we return to her assumption of being on the board come the new year.
“Oh, you know, the usual hot/cold Christmas. Punta Mita pre-Christmas and then Vail for New Year’s. We always fly from sea to ski on Christmas Day to save money.”
It takes every ounce of restraint I have to not remind her to pack her Moncler. “Sounds sensible,” I briefly comment to keep my mouth from getting me in trouble.
“I’m so grateful to Winn for offering me a seat on the board. We will be a formidable force when it comes to moving the state of the school forward.”
“Is that so?” I ask Courtney while glaring a hole into Winn’s back. What are you up to, Winn Hawkins? First taking a teacher thirty years your junior under your wing for I don’t know what, and now putting a clingy Royal-Hawkins mother in your pocket.