“Really? Seemed like there’s history there to me.”
I shrug and stroll over to the dresser where I’ve finally stored my clothes like a grownup. “Ex-boyfriend.”
“Ohh. I see.” I don’t miss the suggestive tone in her voice. “Ex-boyfriend. Well, he’s really charming.”
Snorting, I retreat to the bathroom to dress. “Yeah, that’s Bobby,” I call through the closed door. “He’ll charm the pants right off you.”
“So why aren’t you two together again?” She asks the question like it’s the most baffling thing in the universe, and it reminds me why I prefer to avoid revealing this stuff in the first place.
Claire sees the surface. The side of him that lures you, that hooks you and reels you in before you see how flimsy the fishing rod actually is—that it’s about to snap, that he won’t even notice when you begin to drown. It’s not her fault; it’s probably the same side of him that has me agreeing to this thing in the first place. “Like you said, there’s a lot of history there. A lot of making up for him to do, too.”
I step out of the bathroom to see Claire flipping through channels on the TV. “Aren’t you supposed to be working?” I ask, realizing it’s the middle of the day.
“Nope. I don’t work Sundays. It’s the one day shift Paul has, but he wound up Lord knows where after a house party last night and asked me to cover for him till he got here. He just showed up a minute ago.” She looks at me and smiles her smile. “Guess being the boss’s son has its perks, eh? So, back to Ex-Boyfriend—”
“Bobby.”
“Bobby. Was he a bad boyfriend?” Something about the way she asks, her tone softening and chin tilting, has me pausing to seriously consider my answer. I sit down beside the fireplace, and Claire waits quietly for me to speak.
“He didn’t used to be,” I say truthfully. “In fact, the way you saw him today is a lot like how he was when we met in high school. Confident grin, clean cut, determination in his eyes . . . warm.”
“What happened?”
I frown, trying to recall the downward spiral, how it all began. But that’s not how it works. There’s no little calendar where all the answers are neatly filled in on the correct dates. In reality, the change happens so gradually you don’t even hear the sirens when they pass by. “Life didn’t go as planned, and he crumbled,” I finally answer. “He replaced his dreams with alcohol and TV until he forgot he ever had anything else.Anyoneelse.” Claire says nothing, and I give another shrug. “Eventually, I got tired of waiting around for him to remember.”
After a brief pause, Claire lets out a heavy sigh. “It’s all so romantic.”
I gape at her.Seriously?What kind of romance novels has she been reading? “Romantic?”
She nods, staring wistfully out the window. “Yes, romantic. He’s come back to prove his love. To be a better man for the woman who holds his heart.”
Oh god. She’s so wrapped up in the obvious fantasy playing out in her head that I don’t have the heart to tell her just how far from reality it likely is. I’ve known Bobby long enough to not get my hopes up. And even if he really does have a handle on his sobriety now, even if he really is ready to make an effort again, I don’t know if he’s what I want anymore. But sweet Claire doesn’t need to know that.Come on, Lou, let the girl dream a little.
“Okay,” I concede. “We’ll go with romantic.”
She smiles again, turning back to me with a look that’s surprisingly devious for such an angelic face. “Then what are we waiting for?”
The expression on my face must tell her I’m drawing a blank, because she says, “Let’s show this guy Bobby just what he’s been missing, and why he better not slip this time.”
“Oh, no—”
“Yep.” She’s already out of her seat, yanking me up by the hand until I stumble after her. The girl is stronger than she looks. I may be taller, a little curvier, but she’s got some muscles hiding beneath her slender frame.
“Claire—”
“Let’s go.”
“It’s really not like that—”
“Uh huh.”
My pleas are futile. Within half an hour I’m in a slinky black dress and my hair is blow dried, falling with silky smoothness down my back. The only part of the dress that isn’t squeezing me for dear life is the waist, and that’s only because it’s busy with the curves of my chest and hips. Claire’s rouged my fair cheeks, glossed my lips, and cat-eyed my eyelids. I’m staring at my reflection with my mouth agape, not sure if I want to hug her for making me feel sexy again or tie her down so I can escape and call this whole thing off.
Claire’s standing beside me, pride and approval twinkling in her blue eyes. “Yup. He’s done for.”
“Claire . . .”
She pats my back, which happens to be bare, thanks to the deeply scooped drop at the rear of the dress. “You’ll be fine.”
