Page 38 of The Pocket Pair

How do I tell the man I want him to cross ALL the lines? I want to be one of those handwriting primers they give out in elementary school with a row full of Ts, every single one needing Chevy to cross lines all the way across the page.

“Pretending like that can be … confusing. So, I wanted to make sure we’re clear. Especially with you moving in.”

I was way too slow to realize what he meant. Probably because I was distracted hearing him talk about us. But the us he meant was the friends us. Not any other kind of us. Not the line-crossing us I was hoping for.

“So, we’re good?” Chevy asks. “Still friends?”

He just had to go there. The most offensive F-word in the world.

“Nothing has changed,” I manage to say. A painfully true statement. I dig up a meager smile from the trenches of my very soul and plaster it on my face.

“Good,” Chevy says. “That’s good. I don’t want things to be weird while you’re living with me.” He clears his throat. “Staying with me.”

Things weren’t weird. Now, though, they are. We stand there, not touching and no longer talking, staring at this ugly painted field until Mr. Silver graciously interrupts, asking me to clean up. I’ve never been so grateful for menial, minimum wage tasks in my whole life.

CHAPTER 11

Chevy

Normally, on a rare morning off, I’d be relaxing with a cup of coffee and Ray LaMontagne music. Reading a book, bingeing a show, or doing Sudoku.

Today, I am on my hands and knees, stress-cleaning the grout in my shower with an old toothbrush. Penny tile is not for the faint of heart. I do have coffee on the counter and Ray is crooning, but I am nowhere near relaxed.

In an hour, I’m meeting Val at her place to help her move in. And I’m not sure how I’m going to manage sharing 1500 square feet with her.

I swear, it’s like ever since Val bandaged me up in CVS, whatever fraying moral strength I’ve been using to ignore my attraction to her—which must be ignored because Winnie will kill me and because I’m not relationship material—finally snapped. Getting to claim her, even in a pretend sense, at the bar did nothing but give me a taste of what could be. And despite what I told her last night in the gallery, friendship is not what I want.

I could barely keep my eyes from roving over her in that dress. Don’t get me wrong—to me, Val looks best in one of her many pairs of paint splattered coveralls because they’re just so her, but getting a glimpse of Val’s bare legs and her curves…

I scrub a little harder, really putting all my weight into it. My back is going to feel this tomorrow. So are my knees. But what really and truly hurts is the organ beating in my chest, the one I like to pretend is only good for circulating blood through my body and absolutely nothing else.

Why now? Why am I suddenly feeling all these … feels?

My sister started it with her stupid pinky promise in the cemetery. If I could pass out two pieces of advice to seniors on their graduation, it would be one: don’t install penny tile unless you really love scrubbing grout, and two: never make promises in a cemetery.

It happened on our annual visit to our parents’ graves, only this time, Winnie and I both confessed the same secret we’d kept without knowing it: that we both knew about our father’s other family. I knew longer than Winnie, who didn’t find out until after he died. Not sure which is worse—me knowing and having to look at his lying face for years or Winnie not knowing until it was too late to confront him.

And Winnie would have confronted him. Which is something I didn’t ever do after accidentally finding his second phone and reading through his texts to Amelia—his other wife.

Like a coward—like him—I pretended everything was totally normal and fine. For years. Meanwhile, a part of me shriveled up and died at the realization that my father was never the man I thought.

He died not knowing I knew. Not knowing how much his actions, which he probably never thought would impact us, changed things for us both.

And it was in that emotional graveside moment that Winnie made me promise we wouldn’t let our father’s choices ruin our relationships. At least one of us has held to that promise. Me? I’m still pretty convinced I can’t risk a relationship at all. Not when I’m terrified the rotten apple might not have fallen far from the tree.

But now, I’m haunted by the stupid promise I made to my sister.

“Grown men shouldn’t make pinky promises,” I mutter. “And they definitely shouldn’t choose penny tile for a shower floor.”

When there’s a knock at the door, I’m relieved for a reason to get off my knees. Even if it’s just someone soliciting. Eight o’clock is a little early for people selling magazines or solar panels or whatever the latest door-to-door thing is, but these people don’t seem to care for boundaries. I opt not to put a shirt on, since strangers tend to be more than a little uncomfortable with random shirtless dudes answering the door.

What better way to scare off a guy selling solar panels than with my nipples?

For good measure, I casually dip my hand into the front of my sweatpants. Not so far as to be obscene—just enough to cause a great deal of awkward discomfort. For them, not me. Because I’m totally fine shirtless with my hand halfway in my pants.

But when I pull open the door, it’s not a salesman or saleswoman I’m scandalizing.

It’s Val. And by her wide, brown eyes I can see she is definitely scandalized. Maybe even scarred.

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