The Way We Touch: or Wrangling the Wide Receiver (The Bradford Boys)

“And plié and three fouettés then arabesque. Austin, you’ll come in quickly for the lift, then lower, turn, and down.” I move the slider on my phone to the number where we’ll start the music, then I press play. “Four, three, two, one…”

Mia lifts her arms, rising en pointe and begins the scene. It’s a short number from Giselle, and I hope they’ll be ready to perform it at the Christmas pageant, a little more than a month away.

We’ve worked on this choreography since we started staying after, and they’re really improving. Standing back, I watch as they glide across the stage. Austin lifts Mia with ease, and she comes down on her toes, doing three little hops before lifting her leg behind her.

His hand braces her thigh, and she goes up. Then she wobbles, then she turns and slides, falling down his chest.

We all let out a disappointed noise, and I tap the pause button on my phone.

“My bad!” Austin calls, holding up his hands. “I didn’t have the grip like you showed me.”

“It’s looking good, though!” I try to keep our spirits high. “Lifts are hard, but your posture and form are great.”

If they’re not ready for Christmas, we can do it at the spring showcase. It will also be great for an audition video.

We rehearse until Austin has to go to football practice, and Mia needs to rest.

“After a while, it really is good to break and do something else.” I give her a brief hug as Austin jogs out the door. “You’ve come a long way fast. I think you’re going to have your pick of schools in the fall.”

“Thank you, Miss Bradford.” She smiles as she removes her pointe shoes. “I don’t know how I’d have done this without your help.”

“You’re an excellent dancer.” I press my lips into a smile. “It’s very gratifying to help you achieve your dreams. It’s a little like I’m achieving mine.”

Her voice is quiet as she looks up at me. “Maybe I’m helping you, too?”

Nodding, I squeeze her arm. “I think you are.”

It’s Thursday, and I’ve got to get to the restaurant to prepare tonight’s Dare dish. I’ve picked out a recipe that calls for Trinidad Scorpion, which is between the Carolina Reaper and the ghost pepper on the Scoville scale. It’s a new one, and I’m interested to see how the regulars handle it.

When I work with Mia and Austin after school, I come back in my work clothes. Parking my bike at the house, I jog down to the large, sprawling white restaurant with the wrap-around porches my dad affectionately named after the saltwater turtles who always sit on a log down by the bay… and the pool players, not irresponsible drinking, he’d said.

For Thanksgiving, we’ve decorated the place with stalks of corn and orange and white twinkle lights. Craig made little pilgrim hats for the turtles, and Kimmie insisted on a huge, inflatable turkey for the playground. The restaurant will be closed for the holiday, and I’ll be far away in New York with Logan.

The thought of another four days like our last visit has me so excited, I skip through the back door into the kitchen. I’m happy with Mia’s progress, I’m happy about the crisp touch of fall in the air, I’m happy about my upcoming trip…

It all crashes down on my head when I enter the room.

Craig meets me at the door, eyes tight with worry. Allie’s face is pale like she’s seen a ghost, and my heart drops to my feet.

“What’s wrong?” My hand is on my throat. “Is it Thomas?”

“Not me,” the old man growls from where he’s standing beside the stove shaking his head.

He seems disgusted, and I don’t know what to make of that. It’s not a game night, but that doesn’t rule out my brothers. Or even…

My head gets light. “Did something happen to Logan?”

Allie rushes up to me, taking my hand. “Oh, honey. You’d better sit down.”

My eyes widen, and I almost scream. “If somebody doesn’t start talking⁠—”

I might throw up. Acid is in my throat.

I’m not a paranoid person, but life hasn’t exactly been kind to us, and my friends don’t look at me this way ever.

“TMI just published a story.” Craig walks over to where I’m barely holding it together, the iPad in his hand. “Written by Callum Cross.”

My face snaps up to his. “I knew I recognized that name!”

“It’s not a very nice story,” Allie says quietly.

“It’s a fucking smear job. It’s one of the worst things I’ve ever read, and it’s all lies and speculation and garbage. Clearly clickbait.”

I reach out my hand, not caring if my fingers tremble. “Show it to me.”

Craig hesitates, holding the iPad to his chest. “I’m only showing you this because you need to know.”

“Does she?” Allie’s voice cracks.

She looks like she might cry, and I don’t wait for his response. I take the device from my friend and look down at the headline stretching over the screen in heavy block letters. Logan Murphy’s Mystery Lady Revealed, and She’s After His Booty!!!

“That’s just silly. Three exclamation points?” I glance up at Craig, and his mouth is pressed into a tight line.

“He’s just getting warmed up.”

A dry ache is in my throat as I quickly scan the article. It spends a lot of time portraying Logan as cultured and rich, dating models and attending black-tie events, and me as a redneck gold digger only in it for his money and fame.

“She’s no barefoot contessa, but she is barefoot—all the time!” I exhale an embarrassed laugh, the muscles between my shoulder blades tightening. “I guess they’re not wrong.”

“They’re assholes.” Craig’s voice is simmering fury.

“They interviewed Natalia?” My stomach sinks as I read her words.

“I can’t imagine what they have in common,” van Norse said. “They’re worlds apart.”

When asked why he might choose someone so far beneath his wealth and status, van Norse speculated, “We broke up in June, and he started dating her in July. Clearly it’s a rebound.”

“A rebound?” I want to argue with the phone.

“Either that or he’s getting back at his father. What better way to send a ‘fuck you’ to the old man than to take up with the poor little sister of his redneck best friend?”

Lainey’s quote cuts the deepest. “All I’ll say is Logan Murphy has a type, and that’s not it.”

They’re basically the exact words I said when I saw his Instagram feed, and I can almost hear them snickering behind my back.

“She was so friendly at the gala.” Now I actually do feel dumb—for thinking they wanted to be my friends. “Is that what they were saying about me?”

“They’re a bunch of jerks.” Allie’s voice is louder.

“Oh, my God, he interviewed Davis?” I can’t keep the horror out of my tone.

“He’s the douchebag who called you a gold digger!” Allie shouts.

“With her brothers moving out and moving on, she’s grabbing at any wealthy man she can find.” My forehead is hot and tight. “She holds weekly dance parties at [restaurant name redacted], complete with a near-striptease all in an effort to entice the affluent and vulnerable…”

My upper arm tingles when I remember the way he grabbed me. “As if Davis Kent has ever been vulnerable.”

“Will you let me beat up his car with his golf clubs now?” Craig is fuming.

The article is littered with candid photos, and I’m at the bottom when I reach the one that turns my blood cold. It’s from my visit to New York, and it’s the night we were on the balcony. My head is in Logan’s lap, and it’s very clear what I’m doing.

I have to stop myself from throwing Craig’s phone across the room.

“Everyone’s going to see that.” I shudder. “The school, my brothers… People who don’t know me will read those quotes and think it’s the truth.”

“We’ll sue.” Craig slaps his hand on the counter. “It’s an invasion of privacy. You have rights.”

“Do I?” I look up at him with round eyes. “Logan’s a celebrity.”

I walk over to lean my back against the kitchen wall behind the dishwasher. The strength drains from my limbs, and I slide down it until I’m sitting on the floor with my face against my knees.

My friends rush to my side.

“What are you thinking?” Allie sounds nervous.

What am I thinking? My head is spinning, and I think about everyone discussing this story and me. I think about it spreading across the Internet. I think how much it sucks to go viral.

“I think Davis is an asshole, but Natalia? Lainey? They said what they thought.” I can’t forget the images on his Instagram feed—model after model after model. “We are from completely different worlds, and I’m not his type.”

Of course, I fell in love with him. He’s handsome and rich and polished and sexy, but what am I? A redneck girl miles away with bare feet, no plans, and a weird hot pepper fetish. I’m a curiosity, not something you bring home to Papa, no matter how much you hate him.

Or maybe it’s what Natalia said: you do it, because you hate him.

“Stop right there.” Craig’s voice is sharp, and he squats in front of me. “Not a single word of this story is true.”

“I don’t feel so good.” I place my hand on his shoulder, and he helps me stand slowly. “Would you mind covering for me tonight? I have a recipe and ingredients set out, but you can do whatever you want.”

“You are not believing this story, Dylan,” Craig orders, following me to the back door. “I won’t allow it.”

“I don’t want to believe it.” My heart twists in my chest. “But maybe it’s a warning.”

“It’s bullshit.”

Nodding, I hold out my hand. “I just need a minute.”

I feel like the wind has been kicked out of me. Or like somebody found the biggest bruise on my body and punched it as hard as they could. Using their knuckle.

Or like I broke my foot all over again, and my world is crashing down on my head once more. I dared to dream, to reach for something that seemed impossible, and Fate noticed and slapped me down again.

Craig watches me with impatience. “Dylan…”

Turning away, I head for the house like I’m walking through a bad dream. My mouth is dry, and I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to think about all the people seeing that story.

The house is dark, but I don’t turn on the lights. I put my phone on the kitchen counter and go to the living room. A small, portable wet bar is behind the couch. We don’t use it often, so the bottles of whiskey, gin, and vodka are pretty full.

I grab an unopened bottle of tequila and carry it to the guest room where I’ve been sleeping. Then I shut the door, twist off the top, and collapse to the floor.