Page 88 of Claiming Puerto Vallarta

Pine nuts and broccoli on Goss Avenue. That was careless.

A memory offered like any normal man might offer one. I forgot that Bentley84 isn’t allowed to have roots.

You in Louisville, Bentley?

The question appeared, and for one suspended second, I hadn’t been afraid. That frightens me now.

The lie came fast enough. But before the lie, before Clint’s three dots became words, there had been another feeling. A bright rush of… almost.

In that second, I wanted him to know.

I wanted the whole terrible structure—partly built by me—to collapse around us. Bentley, Reddy, the estate, the screen. I wanted Clint to see through the glass and find me sitting here in the dark, exposed and guilty and wanting him.

He believed the lie this time. He won’t let himself believe it forever. I’m not that good at this, and weeks of practice are only making it worse.

I close the laptop, and the room goes black except for the amber nightlight by the door.

I stand too quickly. The blanket slips to the floor. Baxter lifts his head, considers me, then lowers it again. Barret is not even in the room. He abandoned me earlier, which shows excellent moral instincts.

The house is quiet around me. Always too quiet.

I stretch and turn, as if looking for direction. I know this house like the back of my hand. Upstairs, there’s a bed I haven’t touched in two months. Down here, the couch is waiting.

I pull up my underwear and sit back down, slower than I got up.

And tomorrow night waits. That’s the next problem.

Because I know I’ll want to come back.

Jessica and I meet at The Pearl for lunch. She still watches me with that calm attention she’s grown so fond of, like she thinks I’ll fall and break.

I last ten minutes before I set down my fork.

“What?”

She blinks. “What?”

“You’re looking at me like I’m a suspicious mole.”