Page 40 of Sleepover

Chapter 18

Elle

My phone buzzes.

Three weeks is a long time.

Sawyer.

If the phone had been pressed between my thighs when it vibrated, the message couldn’t have taken a more direct path to my libido.

It’s the last day of school before summer, and the boys are participating in their elementary school’s “Moving Up” ceremony. We’re sitting in the elementary school cafeteria-gymnasium, which is one of those battered-but-charming older school setups with pads on the walls and a low-slung stage and beat-up folding chairs. The kids squirm in rows on the floor in front of the adults, and the whole room is steaming hot, despite a propped-open door in the back corner.

I’m overwhelmingly aware of Sawyer, three rows behind me. We drove separately and I hadn’t thought to save him a seat. Actually, I’d thought about it, but it felt awkward to actually do it, because he and I weren’t exactly friends, not yet. We existed in some weird in-between region. I’ve actually experienced something like that before, with other parents of kids Madden is friends with. You get to know kids’ parents when you do drop-off and pickup from playdates, but you aren’t quite officially friends with the parents on your own terms, where you’d invite them to socialize with you.

Plus, with Sawyer and me there’s this other complicating factor…

The one epitomized by the text on my screen, Three weeks is a long time.

Three weeksis a long time, I tap back. I don’t bother, yet, to try to shield my phone screen, but I’m aware of the moms on either side of me, casting side-eye at my unruly device.

Sawyer’s text is the first time either of us has mentioned his sex-repeat proposition since he laid it on the proverbial table Friday, after Trevor and Helen’s awful visit. Sawyer finished the fence the next day, and since then, he’s been—from my perspective—hiding out in his house and depriving me of my view. He hasn’t even knocked on my door looking for Jonah. The boys have carried messages back and forth from house to house (“My dad says it’s fine if I sleep over if it’s fine with you.”), but there have been no hot-dad visitations.

Which is as it should be. We made a deal. And honestly, I’m somewhat worried that if Sawyer starts making appearances on my doorstep, my resolve might not last long.

My phone vibrates, sending ripples up my legs. Or maybe that’s just anticipation. I have some ideas, the text says.

Oh. I shift in my seat, suddenly aware of a strong desire to press my bare thighs together under my sundress.

I should ignore him. This isn’t the time or the place. And the terms of our agreement stipulated only that one night. No kissing beforehand.

And even if I’m thinking about violating that provision, I should tell him we can resume this conversation later, when we’re both in the privacy of our homes.

I text back, Do tell.

You look pretty in that dress.

Thank you.

You would look even prettier with that dress up around your waist.

I’m suddenly warm all over, with hot spots in certain key locations.

Are you going to wear a dress to the wedding?

Hattie and I are going shopping Saturday. Madden will be with my parents.

Yes.

I want to mess with you under the tablecloth.

Now I do press my thighs together—as subtly as possible. I think about how much better it would be if his hand were there, between my legs. Giving me something to shift and rub against. Finding the edge of my panties, creeping under the lace hem, sliding between my slick lips, parting me to rest a teasing fingertip against my swollen clit.

“There they go,” whispers the woman next to me, and I wrench my attention back to where the third graders are edging forward on the floor to take the spot that had been occupied by the fourth graders. “They’re so cute.”

They are adorable, and I grab my phone and shove it unceremoniously into my purse, giving the kid spectacle my full attention. But I can’t stop thinking about Sawyer’s hand finding me under the table at the wedding reception.

I can’t stop thinking about the fact that Sawyer is thinking about it.

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