Page 86 of Sleepover

Chapter 42

Elle

Madden is sleeping at Jonah’s and Sawyer’s. And, well, I’m not.

It’s Friday night, five days after the book slide and breakup. Since Sunday, Madden and Jonah have zigzagged back and forth between the two houses as usual. I’ve kept myself busy with writing. I haven’t seen Sawyer.

It seems ridiculous that anyone can get under your skin that fast, that you can go in a matter of weeks from barely knowing someone at all to wanting to tell him every little thought that crosses your mind…

It feels the loneliest at night. That’s when I miss him the most, when the urge to text him or, worse, to run over and ring his doorbell is so strong I almost can’t resist it. But so far I have managed not to give in to weakness. Each time, I remind myself how strong and self-reliant I’ve been since Trevor left. I was fine without Trevor, and I’m fine without Sawyer.

The tough love seems to be working. Each time I’ve felt close to spiraling into self-pity, I’ve watched a few hundred episodes of old television shows, deliberately filling my head so it can’t be swamped with memories of Sawyer—smiling, laughing, raising an eyebrow at the sight of me in my pajamas and apron, pinning me with a dark look that promises pleasure.

Tonight, though, I can’t settle. I try to do some work, but I can’t write. I start washing dishes, then flit to the laundry, which needs folding, then find myself back at the sink (the dishes still only partially done). I feel aimless and twitchy. I try the usual medicine of bad TV, but that, too, fails me. I change into exercise clothes and go for a run, but I come back just as jumpy, and the hot shower doesn’t help, either.

It just makes me think of Sawyer.

Lavishing attention on my body, washing me, making love to me with an intensity I’ve never known before.

Building a fence, thinking of me, wanting to please me with it.

Watching me at Trevor’s wedding, knowing the best man’s speech would crack me open, protecting me.

So, so good to me, but still not mine.

A dead woman’s.

I blot my tears with my towel and run a comb through my wet hair.

I’ve just finished blowing my hair dry when Hattie and Capria text to see if I want to go to a late show with them.

No thanks.

Getting it on with the neighbor?

The words kick me in the chest, and I have to catch my breath before I can respond.

The neighbor and I broke up Sunday.

Forty-five minutes later, Hattie and Capria show up with supplies.

“Madden here?” Hattie demands, when I open the door.

“Next door.”

“Red wine,” Hattie says, pushing efficiently past me into the kitchen, setting two bottles down on the table. “You should have told us you broke up with him. Why didn’t you tell us?”

“I was doing okay.”

She eyes me suspiciously.

“No, really, I’m fine.”

I’m not sure why I lie. Maybe because I feel so foolish for having deceived myself, yet again, into believing a man was emotionally available when he wasn’t. I couldn’t keep myself out of trouble even though I already knew what trouble looked like.

Capria opens a paper grocery bag. “We weren’t sure, so we brought options. Peanut butter”—she puts a jumbo jar of Skippy beside the wine—“dark chocolate, marshmallows, Ben and Jerry’s, Oreos.”

I grab for the Oreos.

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