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profane tirades about the charmed life his brother led, even in death. It wasn’t long before people got tired of hearing Zach’s broken record of his sad, pitiful life. Soon, reporters no longer cared what he thought, preferring instead to seek out the fond reminisces of coaches, fellow players, and childhood friends.
    Through the years, Natalie had to cope with Zach’s rage against the last living reminder of his brother’s superiority—her. She’d fought to keep from crumbling underneath the inevitable reliving of her father’s would-be legacy and the infinite stream of stories musing about “the best that should have been.” She’d always avoided being a part of the retrospectives celebrating the legendary Ricky Scott, turning down the interview offers from eager reporters and slick sports show producers to “share what she knew” about her “famous father” with a terse “no, thank you.” As a result, her presence in these stories was limited to “the infant daughter they left behind, now working as a PR manager in Chicago, who declined to participate in this program/be interviewed for this story.” What could she possibly say? That the sense of loss had never gone away and had colored practically every aspect of her life since? That there had been times when she’d been angry at her parents for dying, shame immediately washing over her for having such selfish, ugly thoughts? That it was one of the many reasons she was so afraid to get close to anyone, afraid that if she blinked, just like her parents, they’d be gone, too?
    She heard her phone beep from inside her purse.
    hey natalie, had a great time tonight think we really hit it off call me sometime – R
    “On what planet does he think we ‘hit it off?’” she muttered to herself. She bit her lip and stared at the phone for a few moments. Why couldn’t Jason Hudson’s number have been on the other end of a text message asking her to call him sometime?
    They’d talked once since lunch, a hurried exchange where he apologized for not calling sooner; he was rushing out of town on business for a few days but threw out an invitation to dinner upon his return, dropping the promise of a call before their date.
    Didn’t he get back a few days ago?
    She fished her keys out of her purse and smiled at the doorman as he opened the door for her, trying not to get ahead of herself. Jason was busy. A big bank VP—took a lot of business trips. Was probably dating a few other girls (maybe even a lot of other girls. A harem. He had a harem). He’d probably forgotten he’d even asked her out again. Maybe he’d forgotten all about her, period. She sighed to herself as she emptied her mailbox of a stack of bills and this month’s
People
magazine before boarding the elevator for home, wishing now she’d never met him, save herself from the neurotic, masochistic musings that masqueraded as dating.
    Natalie kicked off her shoes and groaned as she walked through the front door, dropping the mail on her tiny dining room table before taking off her suit jacket and letting it drape across the back of her couch. She poured herself a glass of chardonnay and stepped out onto the tiny balcony, the city roaring beneath her as she took a tiny sip of wine.
    She heard the loud jangle of her phone from inside her purse and her heart leapt, hoping. . .
    She cleared her throat as she ran inside to grab the phone, trying to stay calm, her insides already runny with anticipation. Longing.
    She smiled when she saw it was his number. She held one hand to her chest and took a deep breath.
    “Hello?” she said, her heart booming beneath her palm.
    “Natalie? Hey, it’s Jason.”
    “Oh, hi. How are you?”
    “I’m all right. Hey, listen—sorry it’s taken me a while to get back to you, but things have been crazy since I got back to town. But uh . . . just know that I’ve been thinking about you.”
    She tried to keep the smile off her face as she flopped down on the