Page 44 of A Fighting Chance

“Sure,” I choke out, swallowing the extra saliva that’s collected itself in my mouth because looking at her made me, well, it made my mouth water.

I step inside the door to the kitchen as she saunters over to the swing. I find two glasses—a wine glass for her, a short one for me. I pour her wine, then two fingers of bourbon for me. When I step back out onto the porch, I see she’s collected herself into a ball on one side of the swing. Her legs are under her, and her dress is tucked in around her. Her arms are wrapped around her middle and she’s rubbing her shoulders.

“Are you cold?” I ask, setting the glasses down on the table next to the swing.

“Just a tiny bit, no big deal,” she says.

I reach for the edge of my sweater and pull it up over my head, straightening my button-up back down. “Here,” I say, stepping to her. I push the sweater down over her head and help her work her arms into it. Of course, it swallows her. Gone are her bare shoulders and her cleavage. Gone is the entire top of the dress that pleasantly hugs her waist before falling away. This may prove helpful in keeping me focused on the talking. But mainly, she’s warm, and that’s all that matters.

“Thank you,” she says, snuggling into my sweater.

And really, any guy will tell you, watching a woman exist in any of your clothes is sexy. It doesn’t matter what it is. They could borrow a T-shirt to sleep in, your hoodie on a cold day, pull your boxers up over their hips, or just steal your hat to wear and the result is the same. Possession. Healthy possession, albeit. We’re like dogs, and this is essentially our version of peeing on you—staking claim. Plus, you just always look adorable. We can’t help it. We’re a slave to our base desires. And our base desires wanted to claim you, in the most respectful way possible.

I sit next to her on the swing but keep my legs down to gently rock us back and forth. I hand Lyla her glass of wine and watch her sip it before I take a long draw of my own drink. She cups her glass with both hands in front of her.

“How’s Harper doing?” I ask. I haven’t spoken to Harper much about her separation and divorce. It didn’t feel like an organic topic for us.

“I think she’s okay. I know she’s hurting but I know she’s working through it,” she says.

I nod. “Well, that’s good. That’s all we can hope for at this point, really.”

“I agree.”

“I think he’s supposed to come by soon to collect his stuff,” I say.

The features of her face harden at this. “I hope I’m not around for that,” she states.

“Why not?”

“Because I can be very mean. And knowing Chuck, he’ll want to play nice, but I honestly don’t have it in me,” she says, her words sharp.

“You call him Chuck?” I ask, trying to keep myself from laughing.

“Yeah, he hates it. I used to do it for fun every once in a while, but now, I do it based on my inability to give a shit,” she says.

She starts laughing with me and then we both stop as our eyes meet.

“Your sister deserved better,” I say.

She nods her head in agreement.

A new silence falls over us and we sit there, looking at each other—just looking at each other. I like her face in the moonlight. It bounces off her cheekbones, casting shadows of her eyelashes down onto them. She sips her wine again and I watch her lick her lips. She needs to stop doing that, too. I take another drink of my bourbon.

“Seems there are a lot of people here that deserved better than what they got,” she says.

I raise my glass to that. We’ve all been screwed over, that’s for sure. I clear my throat. “Have you had any other serious relationships? You know, since Dean the dick wad?” I ask, not even a little sorry about the nickname.

She lets out a small laugh. “Not really. I’ve done what you can call ‘dating’ I guess. First dates, second dates. I’ve had some strings of okay dates. But nothing stuck.”

I find myself wondering about these men, how they only had one or two dates with her. How they could have let her slip away or found her not worth fighting for. From where I sit, I just can’t picture that many men beingthatclueless. It’s disgraceful.

“Was Cassie the only woman you were ever serious with?”

“Pretty much. Before her—just like you—I dated here and there, but there was nothing I held onto,” I say.

She seems to consider my words. “What are we doing, Gentry?” she asks, her question giving me pause.

Because I honestly don’t know. I mean, I want to say we’re just having fun, but that feels cheap and, somehow, a shitty thing to say. Though, I don’t think I have it in me to say more, because that would make me an idiot. She’s leaving, so it can’t be more. Which leaves what? Something in the middle? No. The middle of anything is always messy. Always. There’s no good way to present the middle.

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