Page 66 of The Two of Us

I tilt my head in confusion. “What?”

“The top of the nacho platter. I only took the pieces that were loaded with the good stuff.”

“You stood there and carefully extracted the nachos that had adequate toppings?” I laugh. “You don’t even like nachos.”

“No. But you do.”

My heart sputters out and when I open my mouth to respond, a bucket of water drenches my front side. Matty runs away laughing with his friends close on his heels.

“Matty! Not cool!” Ambrose yells. “I’m sorry about that, Mouse.”

I laugh, pulling my soaked shirt over my head, leaving me in nothing but the old black bikini top I scrounged from one of the storage boxes. “It’s fine. He’s just a kid.”

“Here, put this on,” he says, tossing me his crew neck. It lands in my lap.

“Oh, I’m not cold.”

He blows out a harsh breath, his gaze swinging on me. “Just”—his eyes roam the strings of my bikini top—“put it on.” He turns back to the nachos he doesn’t like and I shift my eyes toward the water, biting back a small grin.

I promise myself I’ll tell Ambrose about my run-in with Anya’s ex while we play tag with the kids, but the ease in his posture and smirk on his face pushes me into silence. Then, I try to make it happen while we roast marshmallows, but Matty and I get into a heated debate on whether s’mores are better with fully burned marshmallows or ones lightly so.

It’s too easy, spending the day together. Natural. And I’m aware it’s because Ambrose and I are no strangers to making memories in a group of three. I don’t want to ruin it.

When we finally pull into Ambrose’s driveway with sun-kissed skin and sand between our toes, it’s pouring rain. A light from the den flickers on and the front door opens. Anya runs out with an umbrella, looking casual but pretty in a mauve tracksuit. Her eyes are tired as she unbuckles a sleeping Matty from his booster seat, enveloping him in her arms.

She lays a gentle kiss on his forehead and something strikes me. I’m witnessing a woman who loves her child wholeheartedly. No matter her vices.

“Did he have fun?” she asks Ambrose, her eyes bypassing me in the passenger seat.

Ambrose’s smile is gentle. “He got a raging belly ache from all of the food he stuffed his face with, but I think he’d do it again if he had the chance.”

Anya chuckles and it makes her look younger. More alive underneath the purple bags and deep lines on her face.

“I’m glad you all had a good time.”

You all? Does that include me? Before I can respond, Anya closes the door and walks in the direction of her house, carrying Matty like he weighs no more than a sack of flour.

When I face Ambrose, he looks just as confused as I am and I think better than to ask.

“Thanks for today,” I say, grabbing my purse from the floor.

Ambrose nods and I take it as my cue to go. I take my time walking to my front door, not minding the rain. Once I let myself in, I turn around to latch the dead bolt, but stop to watch his house.

Ambrose leans against the side of his car, the confused expression still on his face as he stares right back at me in the rain.

I lock the door and gather a few deep breaths in the darkness of the front hall. When Ambrose looks at me, he has a way of absorbing all the oxygen in a five-mile radius.

The house is so quiet, I can hear my clothes shift across my skin as I make my way toward the staircase. I don’t hear Laura nearby. The cold draft causes the hairs on my arms to stick straight up and I rub them instinctively. I follow the cool sensation, finding myself in the den where Ambrose plans on replacing the sliding doors. Nothing looks out of place, but a string of cold air curls around my neck.

I inch closer to the sliding door, examining it. I flip the light switch to get a better look, but nothing happens. It’s probably because of the rain and I add it to the list of things Ambrose will need to fix. Using the flashlight on my phone, I lift my arm out in front of me and my heart drops to my feet. It’s easy to miss, but it’s there. A small piece of wood holds the sliding door open no more than two inches.

Laura must have left it open on accident. She’s been ranting that the fresh air from outside does more for our health than the filtered junk from our air conditioners. But where is she?

I’m kicking the piece of wood with my shoe and locking the sliding door when I hear a muffled bark from upstairs.

Otso.

Laura never puts him away in the room anymore, at least not since he’s become accustomed to me. Maybe he snuck into the trash again and she got fed up. I climb the stairs, letting my phone guide the way. I stick my ears out in every direction and the barking becomes stronger to my right—near the coat closet.

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