Page 24 of Sleepover

Before I can think better of it, I say, “Seems like you might be better off with Trevor’s money than with Trevor.”

Startled, she meets my gaze. Her blue eyes are outlined in black, her lashes thick and dark. “What makes you say that?”

I’m already wishing I hadn’t. The intensity of her regard makes me nervous. “I don’t know. First impression.”

Actually, my first impression of Trevor goes all the way back to Maeve’s that night a couple of months ago, when she told me the story of what he’d done to her. Her voice was small and tight, hurt. Defeated. There she was in Maeve’s, her hair a bright spot of yellow in the dimness of the bar, too beautiful to be ignored, and this asshole guy hadn’t been able to see what he had straight in front of him.

I hated him even before I met him.

“You know how he struck me yesterday?” she asks, thoughtfully. “Like a little yappy dog. You know? Has to pee on everything to make sure everyone knows it’s his. You took the boys hiking, so he had to say he would take them kayaking. He had to let us know that he and Helen were going to make Madden’s favorite dish. And that thing about the oil and tire pressure was just him humping my leg.”

I laugh.

She’s staring at me.

“What?” I demand.

“I just realized I’ve never heard you laugh before.”

That brings me back to myself with a sharp rush. “Yeah. I don’t, much. Since Lucy died.”

The words are out of my mouth before I can check them.

She’s staring at me. “Lucy,” she says, softly.

“My wife.”

I watch as realization dawns, and sadness. The softening and splintering of her expression.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“It was two years ago.”

“Still.” She swallows hard. “I thought you were divorced. I just assumed you were divorced.”

“Yeah, well. I’m not.”

I can see her struggling for words. How many people have I watched do this exact thing in the last two years? But for some reason, I don’t hate it when she does it. I’m—curious, I guess. I want to know what she’s going to say.

“That sucks,” she says finally.

It makes me smile. Just a little. “Yeah.”

“What was she like?”

Startled, I almost drop the crowbar.

“Sorry. Maybe you don’t want to talk about her.”

“Not really.”

She nods.

There’s an awkward silence. “Um, I’d better get back to this,” I say, gesturing at the fence.

Her mouth flattens. For the first time, I notice she’s wearing a sparkly pink color on her lips. One pearly tooth bites into the softness of the pink, and, inconveniently, I want to kiss her. Hard. Long. With a lot of tongue.

But I don’t. I turn my gaze back to my work.

“Yeah. Sorry. I’ll let you continue the destruction.”

The warmth is gone from her voice. She turns and walks back to her house, and I’m left with the remnants of the Snyders’ fence and the strong impulse to call her back. To ask her what she wants to know. To tell her whatever it is.

To cover her mouth with mine, to draw her close.

I don’t…but I’m pretty sure I’m fighting a losing battle against myself.

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