Page 72 of Sleepover

Chapter 34

Elle

I make Hattie and Capria come over and keep me company while I pack for the wedding. It’s one of those complicated-to-prep-for trips where I have to remember things like safety pins and double-sided fabric tape, and I know that between them, they won’t let me forget anything.

Plus, I need to talk to someone about what’s happening with Sawyer.

“Okay, so let me get this straight,” Hattie says. “The sex is amazing.”

I carefully lay the dusty-pink dress into my garment-bag suitcase, smoothing out wrinkles and neatly folding the sides over so it fits without making weird creases.

“The not-sex,” Capria corrects.

“The not-sex is amazing. Even better. He’s a great dad. Your boys get along,” Hattie says.

“Stop. Stop,” I say. “You’re getting way ahead of yourself.”

“Am I?” Hattie asks. “Amazing not-sex. Actual parenting skills. Family compatibility. Fantasy fulfillment. I don’t understand what there possibly could be to freak out about.”

Capria raises her eyebrows. “Don’t you?”

“Dead wife,” I say. “Perfect dead wife who can do no wrong because she’s dead.”

“Better than divorced wife who can make your life a living hell,” Hattie says.

She’s speaking from personal experience. Within a year after her divorce, she met a guy she really liked, but the wife was such a crazy-town loon ball, she ended up breaking up with him. There was no way on earth she could co-parent his kids in that situation, she said, and as much as she wanted love to conquer all, she was too cynical to think it could.

“I don’t think we’re really talking about the dead wife, though,” Hattie says. “I think we’re talking about Helen.”

I face away from her to dig in my dresser drawers for pantyhose and a slip, making it take longer than it really needs to.

“Elle? Don’t you think we’re talking about Helen? And actually, we’re really not even talking about Helen. We’re talking about Trevor. We’re talking about how he lied in his marriage vows and cheated on you and made you feel like that was the way the world worked. But that’s not Sawyer, right? Sawyer’s not Trevor.”

No, Sawyer wasn’t Trevor, but that didn’t seem to stop the tremor in the pit of my stomach whenever I thought about the possibility of a future with Sawyer. I kept flashing back on these moments in my life with Trevor, those times when he’d brought Helen up out of the blue, then insisted there was no significance to it. That one painful Thanksgiving when I’d overheard his mother refer to Helen as “the one who got away.”

The coal mine of pain that had opened under my feet when I’d brought his computer to life and glimpsed the size of the betrayal—and the scope of my naiveté and foolish faith.

Hattie crosses to me, takes a chiffon-and-lace nightie out of my hand and holds it up for Capria to admire, then folds it carefully into the suitcase. “This, my friend, is what you need to keep your mind on. Not your asshole ex. The fact that there is a man packing his suitcase a mere several hundred feet from here who, when he sees you in this nightgown, is going to come in his pajama pants.”

I roll my eyes at Hattie’s crudeness.

“Eyes on the prize, Elle.”

I cross my arms and glare at her.

“How can you, of all people, tell me it’s going to be okay? When you know how bad it hurts and how much it sucks?”

“Because you can’t live that way.”

It’s Capria who’s said this, surprising both of us. Usually she lets Hattie do the talking, but she’s got her arms crossed, too, and there’s a stubborn expression on her face.

“Sure, shit happens, and sure you might get hurt, but what are you going to do? You met a guy who can rock your world by text, on the phone, in a truck—”

“With a fox, in a box,” Hattie interjects.

Both of us roll our eyes this time.

“Hell, he could probably make you come with a voicemail,” Capria says.

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