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I grab the skimmer from him and scoop a cigarette butt from the pool. It drifts away from me at the last second, forcing me to chase it along the edge like an idiot.
Don follows more gracefully.
“That butt isn’t the kind you should be chasing.”
“I’m not interested in any butts.” I net the filter and flip the net over the bag. “There.”
He sets the trash bag down and props one hip against a chaise. In the hard noon light, Don looks almost translucent. All angles, sinews, and skin too white for the climate. He has the haunted glow of a man who did cardio this morning with a hangover.
“So,” he says. “Clint.”
My temples throb.
“What about him?”
“You never said anything after he left.”
“It was a private conversation.”
Don rolls his eyes. “He took his clothes off in the middle of your party. That makes him public domain.”
“It was a pool party.”
“It was a strip show.”
“He was wearing swim trunks.”
I toss a towel into the laundry basket harder than necessary. It lands with a wet slap.
Don points. “That. Whatever that was. That is the part we should discuss.”
“That was bad throwing skills.”
“Paul.”
“I invited him to a pool party. We talked for a minute, then he changed into swimwear. There’s no mystery to solve.”
I bend for the final towel.
“He knew what he was doing,” Don says. “That little show? He knew he was giving heart palpitations.”
“He was reacting.”
“To what?”
“To the party.”
“To you.”
My throat tightens. Don’s face sharpens with satisfaction, not because he wants to hurt me but because he has found the door.
I step around him and pick up an empty sunscreen bottle from the side table. “You are overinterpreting.”
“I only ever interpret the right amount.”
I look out past the pool, past the yard and to the lake beyond. “He just wanted to fit in.”
“He wasn’t quite fitting those trunks, was he?”
