Sleepover

by Serena Bell

  He felt horrible saying it. I could tell. Which didn’t make it hurt even one iota less.

  He steps into the foyer. His eyes dart around, looking for salvation.

  “Madden should be here any minute. I let him go for a hike with the new neighbors, and they’re a few minutes late getting back.”

  “New neighbors in the Snyders’ house? You didn’t tell me it was for rent again.”

  Yeah. About that. I didn’t tell Trevor it was for rent because I didn’t want him getting any insane ideas that maybe he and Helen should move in there.

  Trevor lives in Seattle now, in the Broadview neighborhood, in his new fiancée’s house. They have Madden every other weekend, half of Madden’s school vacations, and every other week in the summer. Trevor wanted fifty-fifty custody, but he agreed with me that it wouldn’t make sense unless he and Helen were living closer. Neither of us wanted Madden’s school life disrupted.

  Luckily for me on a number of counts, Trevor and Helen have not yet gotten their act together to buy a house closer to me.

  I am grateful on a daily basis that Trevor and Helen don’t live in Revere Lake. It would be so uncomfortable for me to have my ex and his lover in the house next door, to watch their comings and goings, to maybe even one summer night hear them—Gah. Seattle’s close enough, thank you.

  “Yeah, the Snyders’ house. Single dad, eight-year-old boy. It was insta-bonding between the boys. Jonah stayed here last night, and then they went hiking today. You’re going to be hearing a lot of Jonah-this and Jonah-that.”

  “That’s nice for Madden.”

  “Yeah.”

  This is the kind of scintillating conversation Trevor and I have at pickup and drop-off.

  He has said he wants to be friends, and I know he means it. Part of me wants it, too, but it is so, so hard to be that good of a person.

  Just then, I hear, then see, Sawyer’s truck.

  My pulse picks up a notch. This should be interesting.

  “Elle?”

  I jerk my attention back to Trevor.

  “Anything else going on with Madden I need to know about?”

  “Nothing I haven’t mentioned.” Trevor and I stay in touch by email and sometimes text.

  Every time I reach out to him electronically, I think about the fact that for nearly a decade, he was texting and emailing and messaging and Skyping another woman, telling her the details of his day, his thoughts and feelings. All those parts of him I thought were for me, they never were. They belonged to her.

  When I found out, I thought, Our whole marriage is a lie. And cried so hard and so long that my whole body hurt.

  I turn away from Trevor and watch Sawyer unfold his linebacker’s body from the front seat of the car. It’s a riveting sight—long, strong lines and a surprising amount of grace for such a big guy.

  He’s very athletic. I know from personal experience. My mouth goes dry and something throbs appreciatively in my southerly regions.

  Trevor’s eyes follow mine.

  “That’s the new neighbor?”

  “Yep.”

  The urge to tell Trevor—with words or implication or body language—that I’ve had sex with Sawyer is almost overpowering, but I manage to keep my mouth shut as Madden and Jonah run toward us.

  Sawyer keeps his distance as the boys bound up, talking over each other in their eagerness to tell me about the map and the salamander and the coyote and the river they waded into and and and…

  “Sounds like fun,” Trevor says. “How would you guys like to go kayaking with me sometime soon?”

  My eyes meet Sawyer’s, and his eyebrows go up, just a notch. Giving Trevor the benefit of the doubt, he’s probably just running with a theme, but it does sound a bit like he’s trying to one-up my new neighbor.

  “Wow!” Jonah says. “Dad, could we do that?”

  “Don’t see why not,” Sawyer says easily.

  Trevor strides down the steps toward Sawyer with his hand out, all jovial. “Hey there. Trevor Thomas. Great to meet you.”

  “Sawyer Paulson.”

  I bite my lip in an effort not to smile at Sawyer’s cool response.

  Sawyer’s probably not more than five inches taller than Trevor, but he’s at least fifty pounds heavier, all of it well-distributed muscle. As a result, he looms over Trevor. And I catch Trevor’s wince mid-handshake, which makes it even harder not to smile.

  “And this is Jonah,” I say. “They’re our new neighbors.”

  “Welcome,” Trevor says.

  But you don’t live here anymore, I think. You don’t get to issue the welcomes anymore.

  “Madden, Helen made your favorite dinner for tonight!” Trevor says. “Spaghetti with meatballs!”

  I feel only the faintest flicker of annoyance. One of the things that’s been most difficult since the divorce is that when Trevor’s around, I don’t like either of us—him or me. Obviously, I used to love him. I loved his little quirks and foibles—was even amused by the way he dealt with his insecurities by posturing. But overnight, once I knew that he no longer loved me, my own emotions soured. And in the last year, when I’ve been forced to be in the same place as him, I mainly wished he would go away so I could stop feeling…small.

  But today for some reason, I’m not feeling that way. I think it has something to do with Sawyer’s presence, or maybe with the way he makes Trevor seem like the small one.

  I hide a smile.

  Trevor turns to me. “Elle. How’s the car running? Want me to check the oil and tire pressure while I’m here?”

  Okay, seriously? Even when he lived here, Trevor never actually handled any dipstick beside his own. He knows next to nothing about cars.

  Sawyer, perhaps too smart to stick around and be an audience for Trevor’s display of manliness, says, “Nice to meet you, Trevor. Jonah, come on—time to go.” He heads off toward his house, Jonah trailing.

  “He seems like a nice enough guy,” Trevor says.

  Nice is completely the wrong word. Real is the word I’d use. Or sure, like sure-footed, sure of himself.

  Big. Strong. Competent.

  Very attractive from the rear view.

  Very.

  But not nice.

  “Mmm,” I say noncommittally. And then, because I suddenly feel generous, “Don’t worry about the oil and tire pressure—I got it.”

  I can always just google the shit out of it. Or ask Sawyer for help.

  I smile—actually smile—at Trevor, who looks taken aback. Which makes me realize how long it’s been since I’ve felt like myself around him.

  Not a bad feeling.

  Not a bad feeling at all.

  “Madden, run and change into something that’s not muddy. And not sweatpants. Jeans and a T-shirt.”

  Madden runs upstairs.

  “Don’t let him drink too much soda,” I tell Trevor, and leave him standing on the front stoop, waiting for Madden.

  Chapter 10

  Sawyer

  “What are you doing?”

  Elle is standing in front of me, hands on hips, eyeing me quizzically over a stack of old, mostly rotted boards, the remains of our side fence.

  I put Jonah on the bus an hour ago, with Madden at his side. I think Jonah would have pretty much gone to the moon as long as Madden was going to be on the spaceship. Plus, I felt a whole lot better about sending Jonah to a new school knowing someone has his back.

  I thought about not sending him till next September, but I think it might be easier for him to start now so that in the fall, he knows at least a few kids already.

  As soon as the bus door clanged shut behind him, I dug into my fence project—the one Elle is currently staring at suspiciously. Hell. No one warned her that I was going to rehab the fence.

  “Oh, God, I’m sorr
y, I wasn’t thinking. The Snyders asked me to fence—I assumed they’d asked you. I’m really sorry.”

  Her expression softens. Her hair is down. It’s wavy today, like a wheat field seen from a distance. I know how smooth it is to the touch, how good it feels between my fingers, in my fist.

  I wish I didn’t. It’s distracting.

  “No. No. That actually sounds—it makes sense. That thing was—” She hesitates.

  “A pile of shit?”

  She smiles. Her teeth are small and even and very white, and they were smooth under my tongue that night at Maeve’s.

  So distracting.

  “I was just—surprised. I looked out here, and you were ripping down the fence and I got worried about my flowers, and—I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have been so short with you.”

  I wave her apology off.

  “So, um, what’s the new fence gonna be like?”

  “Simple cedar pickets. Really straightforward, like the old one. But this one will be reclaimed cedar.”

  She tilts her head. “What’s reclaimed cedar?”

  “It means it’s been used before, in another project. This is from a fence that used to run along the line between two farms in eastern Washington. I don’t use new lumber. Not for my furniture, not for my handyman projects.”

  Her eyes widen. “You make furniture?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Wow. That’s—cool. Why don’t use use new lumber?”

  “It’s better for the earth. But I also love handling old things. They have history. Other people have touched and loved them. And when I build with old lumber, that history becomes part of what I’m building.”

  When I said I don’t talk much, there are a couple of exceptions. Like when I start talking about my projects.

  “That’s really cool. Do you know anything about the farms that the fence came from?”

  “A little bit. This fence separated a dairy farm from a huge wheat farm. Kept the milk out of the cereal.”

  She laughs. “That sounds like a much more important job than keeping my weeds out of your backyard.”

  “It’s my weeds that are running rampant.” I gesture at the jungle formerly known as landscaping on the Snyders’ property. “Sorry about the mess. I’ll get it under control soon.”

  “Ah, no worries,” she says, waving a hand. “Mine only looks as good as it does because I use Trevor’s money to hire a landscaper every two weeks in the growing season.”

  Before I can think better of it, I say, “Seems like you might be better off with Trevor’s money than with Trevor.”

  Startled, she meets my gaze. Her blue eyes are outlined in black, her lashes thick and dark. “What makes you say that?”

  I’m already wishing I hadn’t. The intensity of her regard makes me nervous. “I don’t know. First impression.”

  Actually, my first impression of Trevor goes all the way back to Maeve’s that night a couple of months ago, when she told me the story of what he’d done to her. Her voice was small and tight, hurt. Defeated. There she was in Maeve’s, her hair a bright spot of yellow in the dimness of the bar, too beautiful to be ignored, and this asshole guy hadn’t been able to see what he had straight in front of him.

  I hated him even before I met him.

  “You know how he struck me yesterday?” she asks, thoughtfully. “Like a little yappy dog. You know? Has to pee on everything to make sure everyone knows it’s his. You took the boys hiking, so he had to say he would take them kayaking. He had to let us know that he and Helen were going to make Madden’s favorite dish. And that thing about the oil and tire pressure was just him humping my leg.”

  I laugh.

  She’s staring at me.

  “What?” I demand.

  “I just realized I’ve never heard you laugh before.”

  That brings me back to myself with a sharp rush. “Yeah. I don’t, much. Since Lucy died.”

  The words are out of my mouth before I can check them.

  She’s staring at me. “Lucy,” she says, softly.

  “My wife.”

  I watch as realization dawns, and sadness. The softening and splintering of her expression.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  “It was two years ago.”

  “Still.” She swallows hard. “I thought you were divorced. I just assumed you were divorced.”

  “Yeah, well. I’m not.”

  I can see her struggling for words. How many people have I watched do this exact thing in the last two years? But for some reason, I don’t hate it when she does it. I’m—curious, I guess. I want to know what she’s going to say.

  “That sucks,” she says finally.

  It makes me smile. Just a little. “Yeah.”

  “What was she like?”

  Startled, I almost drop the crowbar.

  “Sorry. Maybe you don’t want to talk about her.”

  “Not really.”

  She nods.

  There’s an awkward silence. “Um, I’d better get back to this,” I say, gesturing at the fence.

  Her mouth flattens. For the first time, I notice she’s wearing a sparkly pink color on her lips. One pearly tooth bites into the softness of the pink, and, inconveniently, I want to kiss her. Hard. Long. With a lot of tongue.

  But I don’t. I turn my gaze back to my work.

  “Yeah. Sorry. I’ll let you continue the destruction.”

  The warmth is gone from her voice. She turns and walks back to her house, and I’m left with the remnants of the Snyders’ fence and the strong impulse to call her back. To ask her what she wants to know. To tell her whatever it is.

  To cover her mouth with mine, to draw her close.

  I don’t…but I’m pretty sure I’m fighting a losing battle against myself.

  Chapter 11

  Elle

  “So how are you getting on with Heathcliff?” Mrs. Wheeling asks me.

  I’m unloading groceries into her fridge. It’s three weeks since Heathcliff—Sawyer—and Jonah moved in.

  Whenever I go to Safeway, I check in with Mrs. Wheeling first to see if she can use anything. She’s mobile and can get there on her own, but I figure by the time I’m in my eighties I’ll want to save my energy for something other than pushing a grocery cart around a poorly lit store. There are a couple of delivery services around here, but if I can save her money by tossing a few extra things in my cart every time I go to the store, I’m happy to do it. Besides, talking to Mrs. Wheeling always makes my day better.

  “He seems like a nice guy.” Even if our encounters invariably end with me making a fool of myself. “Did you know he makes furniture?”

  “Yes! Do you want to see what he built me?”

  “Built you?”

  She rises from the kitchen table and headed for the stairs, obviously assuming I’m going to follow her—which I do.

  Her bedroom sports newly installed built-in bookshelves on both walls.

  “So I can keep more books!”

  “That’s wonderful.”

  The shelves are simple but beautiful, painted white, filled with her romance novels.

  “You know what the best part was?” she asks.

  I shake my head.

  “It took him a day and a half, and the whole time he was working I got to bring him things. Glasses of water, and plates of food. And I never wanted to interrupt him, so I just would stand behind him or off to the side and watch him work for a little while. That man. He is—” She smacks her lips.

  “Mrs. Wheeling, you are a dirty old woman.”

  “I know!” she says gleefully.

  I don’t mention that I take every break from interviewing and writing to study him while he works on the side fence, taking in the glint of sunlight on his
black hair, the way he backhands sweat from his brow, the way he scowls at an uncooperative board.

  I don’t want to draw her laser focus to my inappropriate obsession with my neighbor’s broad shoulders or make her suspect that I am now regularly fantasizing about inviting him in for a glass of cold water and a plate of cookies…

  Also, stalker much?

  Since Jonah and Sawyer moved in, Jonah and Madden have been inseparable except when they’re asleep in their own beds and during the two weekends that Madden was with his father.

  And yet somehow, although I’ve seen Sawyer outside plenty of times at work, I have avoided conversation with him, except for that one interaction the day he started demolition of the fence. The one where we were, briefly, kind of—friends.

  Seems like you might be better off with Trevor’s money than with Trevor.

  Isn’t that something you’d say to a friend?

  Except then I had to go and push too far about his wife.

  Big mistake. He shut down completely.

  I rewrite that conversation frequently, imagining that I had left well-enough alone. Although I don’t really know what I would do if Sawyer and I were friends.

  Spend even more time lusting, I suppose.

  Mrs. Wheeling has resumed her new favorite topic, her gaze dreamy, looking for all the world like a moony middle-school girl. “He really is a work of art. A renaissance sculpture. His forearms alone are worth the price of admission. Well, that’s kind of a given, since he didn’t charge me for the shelves.”

  “He didn’t charge you for the shelves?”

  She shakes her head. “He said he has a senior citizen price, and it’s free.”

  I’m sure that’s not true, but Mrs. Wheeling is holding on to her house and her independence by the skin of her teeth, and there’s no way she could afford the going rate for built-in bookshelves. Still, to give a day and a half’s labor to her, when I know he has all that furniture to build—and maintenance to do on his own property—it’s pretty damn admirable.

  “He’s a good guy,” Mrs. Wheeling says.

  She’s watching me with a calculating expression.

  “I’m sure he is.”

  “He’s a good guy, and he’s a good dad—”