Chapter 4

Sawyer

When Lucy was alive, shit like this just didn’t happen.

The last time I saw this woman, she was leaning against a brick wall with her skirt hiked up and her eyes closed, trying to catch her breath. A few minutes after that, I was in my car, driving away, feeling the mix of relief and remorse that has accompanied every encounter I’ve had since Lucy’s death. Also, feeling like an asshole for more or less running away after sex.

Now I’m standing in the doorway of the new rental, and she’s flanked by her son and mine, who are apparently, inconveniently, already best buds. She’s holding a foil-wrapped plate in her hands, which she thrusts out. “I made you some cookies. I mean, because you’re the new neighbors, not because you and I—”

She stops, obviously realizing that there is nowhere good that sentence can go.

When I spotted her across the room at Maeve’s, she was the prettiest girl in a room of pretty girls. She’s still that pretty. She’s small (which made it easy to lift her up against the wall and—), maybe five foot four, with California-girl shiny, straight blond hair, and a heart-shaped face with blue eyes and a beautiful wide mouth (which feels even better than it looks; her lips really are that soft and she does this thing with her tongue, urging mine on), which is painted with pale-pink lipstick (but that night was bright, glossy fuck-me-dead red). And she looks really uncertain today, which I would think was because of the awkward situation except she looked that way that night, too (except when I was inside her, cupping her head to keep her from banging it against the alley wall, when her face was all unlocked, bold pleasure).

She is so not supposed to be on my doorstep. She was supposed to be a one-night-only fling.

She takes a deep breath and starts over. “Welcome to the neighborhood. I’m Elle Dunning.”

I raise my eyebrows. She told me her first name the night we met, and I haven’t forgotten. But I guess we’re going to pretend that whole thing didn’t happen. Which is good. The last thing I want is to have stranger-fucked my new neighbor. And enjoyed it. A lot.

Jesus.

“Sawyer. Paulson.” I take the plate of cookies she’s still offering me. “Thanks.”

I suck at words. Just—I suck. I have a lot of them in my head, but they never come out when I need them. It’s ten times worse with women, too.

“Madden and I are very happy to have you and Jonah here, and we just wanted to let you know that if you need anything, we’re right next door.”

She is perky in that plastic, faux-chipper way that women put on when they’re trying to make a good impression, and I realize that if this were the first time I was meeting her, I would think she was wound way too tight.

I know from personal experience she is not uptight. Anything but, at least not when it comes to sex. She’s willing, responsive…

Speaking of tight, my jeans are feeling a little uncomfortable.

“Madden invited Jonah to sleep over and I said it was fine with me if it’s fine with you. The boys seem to be getting along great. Which is terrific! I’m super glad! We’re very happy to have another boy Madden’s age in the neighborhood.”

“Dad, can I? Can I?”

“I—”

“Please?”

“I guess so.” I’m busy trying to think what Lucy would do in this situation—invite them in? Exchange phone numbers? Would she let Jonah sleep at a house of people he’d just met? Where the hell is the sleeping bag? Jonah’s pillow? His pajamas?

Of course Lucy wouldn’t be in this situation, ever, and neither would I, if Lucy were still here.

“Jonah can borrow some of Madden’s stuff,” Elle says brightly. “We have lots of things; he’ll be just fine.”

She’s breathlessly cheerful. The night we fucked, she was like this, too, filling all the space between us with words. She would have talked more, except eventually I stopped the words with my mouth. I can’t do that now.

Though it’s tempting.

And an unbelievably shitty idea.

“So, um—yeah! Anyway, we’re right over here if you need anything, and, um, let me give you my cell number so you can text if you need Jonah back in the morning.” She takes her phone out and I have a vivid flashback to that night, when she grabbed my phone out of my hand, snapped my photo, and texted it to her friend so that—her words—if I left her body in a ditch, the police artist’s job would be easier.

It had made me laugh, a laugh I could feel in my chest but that hadn’t quite made it to the surface. Laughter, like words, often got stuck partway out since Luce’s death.

Now I take my phone out and we exchange numbers—I punch mine into her phone and then she texts me.

“Got it. Thanks.”

There’s an awkward silence.

“Right,” she says brightly. “So, um, really nice to meet you. Glad to have you in the neighborhood, and all that. See you around.”

And she’s gone, the boys trailing her, already plotting something to do with popcorn and a movie, and I stare after her, realizing I said maybe four words to her the whole time.

“ ’Bye,” I say to the empty air.