Page 15
“Wow, Harper. I don’t know who this guy is, but I guarantee he’s going to like that outfit.”
She grins wickedly, winking at me. “As long as he doesn’t make me wear it for long.”
I laugh, but feel a squeeze of envy. I miss that—the excitement, the anticipation, the way just getting ready felt like foreplay. But Rob doesn’t notice what I wear, and sometimes it hardly seems like he notices me. He just finds enough bare skin somewhere under the sheets to make things work. Sex with us is now like a shortcut through the woods, everything trampled down by repetition to make it easy, straight to the point. I guess that’s a good thing. It’s just that sometimes, when I see Harper heading toward a destination she can’t begin to predict, I feel like I’m missing out on something I shouldn’t be.
* * *
When I get home, there’s a FedEx envelope on the front step waiting for Brendan. If it weren’t about to rain, I’d be tempted to leave it. Instead, with vast reluctance, I go out back and tap on his door. Three crisp knocks: my civic duty and not a shred more.
He has 30 seconds to answer before I throw it and walk. I’ve counted to 25 when he opens the door.
“This was at my place for you,” I say, thrusting the envelope toward him.
He takes it from my hand, studying me a little too carefully, and steps aside for me to enter. I really don’t want to go in, given that I suspect he’s made our pool house smell like sex and bad decisions, but I can’t come up with a reason to demur.
My eyes are drawn to the center of the room. “You hung a hammock in the living room?” I ask incredulously.
“I checked with Rob first.”
“But…why? You already have a bed.”
He shrugs. “I like to mix things up.”
“Are you talking about sleeping in the hammock or something else?”
He gets this secretive smile on his face. “Hammocks are good for a lot of things, Erin.”
“Oh my God. You can’t have sex in a hammock. You’ll fall out and crush the poor girl to death. I’m almost positive our liability insurance doesn’t cover that.”
He gives me a crooked grin, a little light in his eyes that wasn’t there a moment earlier. “Haven’t had an accident yet. Maybe I’m a little more agile than the guys you know.”
I make some noise that sounds an awful lot like “harrumph,” which is something only portly old men in Dickens’ novels make. But this information sits poorly, right on the heels of Rob’s announcement that he’s not coming home. I’m not asking for that much. I don’t need some stranger eagerly removing my little black dress. I don’t need hours of sex in hammocks with men whose agility is almost unfathomable to me. But I need something more than I have, which is nothing at the moment.
He frowns. “I can take the hammock down if it really bothers you.”
I bite my lip and feel an unexpected urge to cry, though I have no idea why, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to do it in front of Brendan. He’d enjoy it too much.
“It’s fine. The hammock’s fine.”
He steps closer, and his proximity makes me feel fluttery and unsettled. “You talked to Rob?”
“Yes.” I swallow. The urge to cry grows. Maybe Brendan knew about Rob’s trip getting extended before I did, and that bothers me too. “I guess you heard he’s staying longer.”
He nods as his eyes roam over my face, and for once there’s no smirk. It’s possible I even see concern there, as unlikely as that is. Olivia was right; Brendan has changed since he left. He’s grown more serious these past few years. The old Brendan would have made a joke, no matter how inappropriate the circumstances. The new version of Brendan seems to understand grief a little better.
“You’re upset.”
“It’s fine,” I say, but my voice catches a little. “I have no reason to be upset.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be upset? He’s your fiancé.”
“I just…” I don’t know why I’m discussing this with him. We aren’t friends. It’s going to turn into something he uses against me later. “It’s not like I see that much of him when he’s home.”
Something flickers over Brendan’s face—a sort of displeasure, distaste—and I wonder if he thinks that was a complaint.
“So what’s different then?” he asks.
It’s the question I’ve asked myself a hundred times. “He filled just enough of my hours when he was home that I felt like I had a point or a purpose,” I reply. “And I’ve suddenly discovered I have neither.”
