Sleepover

by Serena Bell

  “My friends. My BFF kept harassing me, and then—this guy I was dating—”

  It doesn’t seem to properly sum Sawyer up, in any way, shape, or form. We were never really dating. And he was never just “this guy.” But whatever. I plunge onward. “I was telling him all the reasons I didn’t think anyone would be interested in the book, and he convinced me not to let that stop me.”

  “Smart man,” Jacinda says.

  I flash back to that night: the two of us, together at Il Capriccio. I can feel the strength of his interest in what I’m telling him and the depth of his faith in me. I can see his strong, rugged features, his broad shoulders, and when he leans in to earnestly address me, I can even smell his cologne.

  I can hear his voice, too, the low rumble of it.

  I miss him. I hate that it’s true, but I miss him so much.

  “He said, ‘You can talk yourself out of anything.’ And I realized that’s what I was doing.”

  “You were shooting yourself down before you could get rejected,” Jacinda says knowingly. “Happens all the time. In fact, it’s one of my jobs not to let authors do that.”

  Authors. If my book gets published, I’ll be an author, not just a writer.

  “Well,” says Jacinda. “Whatever chain of events led to your sending Splitsville to me, I’m grateful for it. You take your time thinking about my offer of representation. As much as I hate to give you this advice, you might want to check in with some of the other agents you sent it out to, because sometimes if they know someone’s made an offer of representation, that will prompt them to at least read it. But obviously I very much hope you’ll choose me.”

  Of course, I’ll do what she’s suggested, but in my heart I know someone else would have to really blow me away for me to choose that person over Jacinda. I don’t say that, though. I just say, “You’ve been really wonderful. I’ll think it over, and I’ll let you know as soon as I can.”

  And then I hang up and dance like a lunatic around the kitchen.

  When I’ve calmed down, I review the conversation in my head. It was so much goodness at once, I’m completely overwhelmed. I dwell first on the things she said about Splitsville—that she loved it, that it had helped heal her, that it would help other women. That it was charming, self-deprecating, and funny.

  Whatever chain of events led to your sending Splitsville to me, I’m grateful for it.

  Hattie! I had to tell her.

  And Sawyer. I wanted, desperately, to tell him. You can talk yourself out of anything. It’s not talking yourself out of the stuff that matters that’s the tough part. He was part of the chain of events that had led me to Jacinda…

  What had Jacinda said?

  You were shooting yourself down before you could get rejected.

  I freeze, and my hands feel suddenly cold.

  You can talk yourself out of anything.

  You were shooting yourself down before you could get rejected.

  I mentally travel back to that night, trying to see the scene through objective eyes. The journal on the floor, the journal in my hands. My words, and his. What had I said?

  You don’t have to explain. You don’t have to apologize. You were honest with me the whole way. I just thought—

  When you love someone the way you loved Lucy, you don’t just—two years isn’t very long, is it?

  I think it might be too soon. For both of us. You still love Lucy, and that’s okay.

  The thing is, Sawyer, I just don’t think I can do it again—be with someone who wishes he were with someone else.

  And what had he said?

  Almost nothing. He’d answered “no” to my question about two years. And he’d told me he cared about me—even after I told him I didn’t think I could be with him.

  He’d told me he’d miss me.

  And that expression had flashed across his face, which I hadn’t recognized at the time but which could have—easily—been hurt.

  Oh. God.

  Oh God oh God oh God oh God.

  Chapter 45

  Sawyer

  The doorbell rings and my heart leaps into my throat, falls out of my mouth, and bounces down the hall. No. Not really. It just feels like it.

  The doorbell has rung only a handful of times since Elle and I broke up three weeks ago, and every single time I’m shanghaied by my physical response. Madden no longer rings, he just barges in, but a huge assortment of people, ranging from Mrs. Wheeling next door to the mail carrier to the Girl Scouts, have rung my doorbell and nearly killed me.

  This time it’s Brooks with an armful of cardboard boxes, and I can’t help myself—I give him a dirty look.

  “What?! I’m here to be useful. I brought boxes from the store. For your packing.”

  “I thought you might be someone else.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “You thought I was Elle.”

  I sigh, heavily.

  Jonah patters down the stairs. “Hi, Uncle Brooks! What’s those?”

  I see disaster coming a moment too late, try desperately to signal to Brooks, and fail.

  “Boxes. For packing,” Brooks says cheerfully, unwittingly.

  Jonah may be only nine years old, but he’s no dummy. His gaze swings to me, his eyes already full of confusion and anger. “We’re moving?”

  I’ve been meaning to tell him. In fact, I was planning to take him and Madden out for ice cream this afternoon and break it to both of them together.

  I suck in a deep breath and manage to wedge my words in ahead of his next burst of outrage. “We’re not moving far, Jonah. Just across town. You’ll still go to the same school. And Madden can come over anytime.”

  “But he can’t walk over. We can’t walk to each other’s houses all the time. We won’t take the bus to school together.” A ragged edge is creeping into his anger; another couple of sentences and he’ll be in tears.

  I wince. “That’s true, but—” I’m about to launch into my semi-prepared speech, about how I’ll drive him to Madden’s house whenever he wants, pick up Madden at his house, how they can take the bus home together. It’ll be just the same as it is now, I was planning to tell him.

  A lie. A convenient parental lie. But what else can I do?

  He stomps his foot. Hard. “I’m not moving. I like it here. This is where we’re supposed to live. Madden is here. And Elle. And if you would just stop having your dumb fight with her, everything would be fine. You’re acting like a kid.” His face is red with anger. “No, that’s insulting to kids. Kids are better at fixing problems than you are.”

  He storms out and runs hell-bent for leather toward Madden’s house, disappearing inside without knocking.

  Given how well he and Madden handled the situation at school, he may have a point.

  Thinking about that, about the friendship that grew up between the two boys without any effort at all, wrenches me back to reality. Of course it won’t be the same if we move across town. Who did I think I was fooling?

  Jesus, what an asshole I’ve been, to put off telling him for so long. Suddenly I’m furious with myself, and not just for that.

  “Nice job, Dad,” Brooks says.

  I round on him. “Thanks. Thanks a fuck-ton. That’s just what I need right now.” I leave him standing on the stoop, still clutching his armful of boxes.

  He follows me into the house, kicking the door shut behind him and dropping the boxes. “The boy has a point, Sawyer.”

  “Shut up.” I put my hands on the kitchen counter, bracing myself. I’m going to fly apart, pieces of me sailing off into space.

  “No, seriously, dude, what’s the big rush? Why do you have to bail out of this house? I thought you loved this neighborhood. You’ve done all this work—” He gestures at the recently refinished living room floor, visible through the kitchen doorway, and
the new kitchen countertops and cabinet doors, which I’ve been working round the clock to finish. “Jonah’s obviously happy here. It’s not like she’s going to come over here and suck you back in.” He snorts. “No matter how much you wish she would.”

  My chest feels like an overinflated tire; I’m too young for a heart attack, right? “Is there a reason you’re still in my house?” I inquire, as politely as I can.

  “Is that any way to treat a guy who just brought you cardboard boxes? And I’ll help you pack up the kitchen, too, if you’re nice to me.”

  “As long as you promise not to talk.”

  “No can do,” Brooks says. He comes around the other side of the kitchen island so I have no choice but to stare at his ugly mug. “Seriously, Sawyer. What’s this move about? You’ve got cheap rent, you live in a great neighborhood, you love the elementary school, Jonah loves Madden—are things so awkward with her you have to run across town? What are you running away from?”

  “I’m not—I’m not running—”

  But I can’t choke the words out. My throat’s so tight, suddenly, I can barely breathe. Brooks must realize something’s wrong, because he comes around to my side, touches my arm. “Dude, you okay? Oh, Jesus, Sawyer—”

  Brooks’s voice is alarmed—panicky.

  “C’mon, man, don’t cry—you know I can’t stand that shit. For me, man, don’t.”

  “I’m not crying,” I insist, damply.

  “Just don’t think I’m getting you tissues or anything.”

  “No. No tissues.” I swipe the back of my arm across my eyes and pull myself together. “I just miss her, you know?”

  “We all miss her,” Brooks says quietly. “But falling in love with someone else, it’s not going to make Lucy, um, more dead, you know what I’m saying?”

  Strangely, I did. I really did. I nod.

  “I mean, I know it must feel really weird to be moving on without her, but I know she’d want you to be happy, and I bet she’d like Elle. Or she’d like how much you like Elle, at least. Jesus, I suck at this shit. How did I pull this job? I was just supposed to be dropping off cardboard boxes.” He throws his hands up, with the intended effect—I laugh, weakly.

  “And Elle’s not dead,” Brooks continues.

  I look at him, startled.

  “She’s next door. She’s right fucking there, dude. No, no, no, that’s not supposed to make you feel worse—oh, shit, Sawyer, I’m going to have to go get the tissues, aren’t I?”

  And Saint Asshole, to his very great credit, does just that. Or, you know, the man equivalent, which is to bring me a whole roll of TP from the nearest bathroom. I wipe my face and blow my nose.

  “It’s just all mixed up, if you know what I mean,” I say, sounding very much like an nine-year-old, because, let’s face it, when we fall apart, when the big shit hits the big fan, we are all nine-year-olds. “I don’t want to love Elle.”

  “Because it hurts like a mofo,” says Brooks sagely, as if I’ve just said red is red or two plus two is four. “Every time you look at her and feel how crazy you are about her—and it’s obvious to anyone in their right mind you are—your snake brain just throws up a big ol’ wall, because loving someone that much means they’re going to die and wreck you, and—who can blame you for not wanting any of that? But unfuckingfortunately, this is one of those choices you don’t get to make. You didn’t get to make the choice about Lucy dying and you don’t get to make a choice about loving Elle. You just do.”

  This is so completely and totally true that I actually manage a real laugh, which loosens the awful tightness in my chest, just a little. I poach a little more TP from the shrinking roll and try to mop my eyes as discreetly as possible, but it’s not like I’m fooling Brooks.

  “I’m crazy about her, huh?” I ask.

  “You know you are.”

  I do. I don’t want to be crazy about her, like Brooks said, and like he said, I don’t have a fucking choice in the matter. I only have a choice about what I do about it.

  “So what you’re saying is, I should get my ass over there and tell her that I love her and that I want to be with her.”

  He puts a finger to the end of his nose and points it at me.

  And then, just in case I didn’t get the message, he throws the zinger at me. “Because life is short, Sawyer. That’s the whole point of your pain. To remind you that life is way too fucking short. And if you ignore the reminder, it’s just fucking pain.”

  That’s when the doorbell rings.

  Chapter 46

  Elle

  The door swings slowly open.

  Sawyer stands in the doorway, nearly filling it. I always forget how big he is. Every time, it’s the best kind of surprise, one I feel first in my body.

  Please tell me it’s not too late. Please tell me I can explain, ask for clarification, lay everything on the table, unravel the mess I’ve made.

  I’m not sure who, exactly, I’m pleading to, but I hope They’re listening.

  Sawyer eyes me cautiously, but he doesn’t look like he’s about to slam the door in my face.

  “If it isn’t the devil,” a voice says dryly from behind him.

  I wince. I’m sure I’m not Sawyer’s brother’s favorite person.

  “Shut up, Brooks,” Sawyer says. “You were just leaving, weren’t you?”

  Brooks raises an eyebrow. “I was. But now I might stick around and spectate…”

  I can’t say I don’t deserve it, but I desperately want Brooks to get the hell out of here and give me a shot at explaining myself.

  “I could come back another time,” I offer, but Sawyer and Brooks, at exactly the same time, say, “No.”

  Brooks claps his brother on the back. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  I wonder if that’s code for, Stick to your guns, bro.

  Sawyer and I watch him walk down the path to his truck, then we turn back toward each other. He won’t quite meet my eye, which—well, I can’t exactly blame him.

  “I—got you something.” I don’t have a brilliant plan, just an apology gift and a lot of hope.

  “What’s that?”

  “Maybe you should come see?”

  He looks suspicious, but I lead him out the door and around the side of my house, and he follows.

  I stop in front of a pile of wood, carefully stacked on pallets next to my foundation, then turn to face him. I want to see his expression when he realizes what it is.

  “Holy crap,” he says. “What is that?”

  “It’s the bar—what’s left of the old bar—at Maeve’s. Do you remember they were renovating Maeve’s the night we were there?”

  His eyes meet mine, and I see a flash of memory in them. I feel it as heat. He remembers, all right.

  Hope rises.

  “It’s all they had left. There were wall joists and floorboards originally, and a bunch of other stuff, but I didn’t get there in time. But they still had the lumber from the bar because someone said they wanted it and then never came to pick it up. So they let me take it.”

  His expression is alert.

  “It’s a gift for you. An apology gift. Because I was such an idiot the night I saw your Lucy journal. I just talked and talked and I never bothered to listen.” My voice cracks, betraying all the emotion I’m holding back. “I hope you can forgive me, and at the very least we can still be friends.”

  His eyes search my face. “Friends,” he says evenly. “Is that what you want?” He doesn’t wait for my answer. He kneels and examines the reclaimed wood. “Shit, Elle, some of this is bird’s-eye maple.”

  “Is it?”

  “And the oak’s beautiful, too. Jesus, this is—”

  He looks up at me, his eyes full of something I can’t quite read. A big emotion. “This is too much. You don’t h
ave to buy my friendship.”

  “It’s not that.” I can hardly look at him for fear he’ll see the size of my hopes.

  I didn’t make a plan for what I was going to say. I figured I would open my mouth and a whole lot of stuff would fall out, and some of it would be the right stuff. Now that seems crazy, but here I am, so, well, I open my mouth.

  “I got an agent. I sent my book to a bunch of agents, and one of them wants to represent me.”

  “That’s so great, Elle.” Still crouched beside the reclaimed wood, he raises a hand to high-five me.

  “Jacinda Walters, at Book Smith. She’s amazing. And you were right, Sawyer. About how you—I—can talk myself out of anything. I was talking myself out of Splitsville—that’s what I’m calling my book—telling myself I wasn’t good enough, the book wasn’t good enough, without giving it, or me, a chance.”

  He doesn’t say “I told you so.” He just nods.

  Sawyer listens better than anyone I know.

  “I told Jacinda the story, of what you said about it, and she knew exactly what I meant, because I guess writers do it all the time. She said, ‘You were shooting yourself down before you could get rejected.’ And I realized—” I stop. It’s hard to speak because my chest and throat are so tight. “I realized that’s what I was doing with you. Telling myself you were going to reject me. Maybe you are still in love with Lucy, and there’s no room in your life for me, and no matter what I do that won’t change, and years from now I’ll realize it was like with Trevor, where I was waiting and waiting to know that I was the one—”

  “Elle,” he says quietly. “Shut up.”

  I do, clamping my lips together.

  He stands, reluctantly letting his hands slide away from where they’re caressing the bird’s-eye maple. His gaze catches and holds mine, earnest and intense and so, so Sawyer. “I will probably always love Lucy. I mean, I don’t exactly know how this stuff works, but I lost my grandmother when I was fifteen and I still love her.” He takes a deep breath. “But there is room in my life for you.”