Page 64 of Sleepover

Chapter 30

Elle

After I get Madden to bed, I change into my rubber-duck pajamas, brush my hair and twist it into a bun, wash my face, brush my teeth, and throw myself down on the couch in the living room with a package of Oreos. My plan is to eat too many of them and feel sorry for myself.

I’m halfway through one row of cookies when the doorbell rings.

I almost don’t answer it. I’m pretty sure it’s Sawyer, and I can’t. I just can’t.

I can’t stop myself from liking him more and more. And it was pretty clear to me today at the party that I can’t stop myself from being jealous of his dead wife. And it felt so much like the way it used to feel to be with Trevor and hear him talk about Helen. Helen this. Helen that.

But I’m with you,Trevor used to say, when I called him on it. Don’t be ridiculous, he sometimes said, when I told him I was jealous of her.

Only he wasn’t with me. And I wasn’t being ridiculous.

Sawyer’s knock sounds again. He knows I’m in here.

He’s leaning casually on my railing when I open the door. His dark hair is rumpled. He’s wearing a gray T-shirt that’s a little too tight (in the best possible way) and a pair of cutoff sweats. I want to grab him, haul him inside, and run my hands over every square inch of his body.

Instead, I say, “Where’s Jonah?”

“Asleep. Brooks and my parents are with him. Can I come in?”

“I don’t think you should.”

His eyes move over my face, probing. “Why not?”

“I don’t think we should do—this—anymore.”

He doesn’t seem surprised, which shores up my conviction that I’m right.

“What if I told you I just want to talk to you? And that’s not code for anything else, I swear.”

I hesitate. I worry that if I let him in, I’ll let him kiss me, and if he kisses me, I’ll lose the resolve I forged this afternoon. If I let myself have feelings for Sawyer, I’m going to be in a world of hurt. I’m going to spend every minute I’m with him knowing that I can’t measure up.

He holds up a hand. “Five minutes.”

I hold the door open and let him walk past me. I follow him into the living room, where we sit on opposite ends of the couch with a broad stretch of upholstery between us. Even then, I don’t feel safe, not with how much I want to slide my hands under his clothes, feel the heat of his skin.

Or with how he’s looking at me.

“Brooks pointed something out to me today,” he says.

I’m silent.

“He reminded me that I don’t like very many women. Or people, period, I guess. I don’t open up easily. I don’t warm up. I don’t make friends everywhere I go.” He rubs his palm over the evening scruff riming his jaw.

I’m not sure where he’s going with this.

“He’s right. I don’t feel comfortable with most people. But I do feel comfortable with you. Like I can be my real self.”

A warm vine twines itself around in my chest (not to mention several other parts of me), but my voice, when it emerges, is still wary. “I’m—glad.”

“And there’s the sex thing. I’ve had a lot of sex.”

“Yeah. I gathered,” I say darkly.

“But I haven’t had sex twice with anyone other than Lucy.”

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