Page 35 of Scoring Chance

“We used to have sleepovers all the time in high school.”

“I slept on the floor during those.”

“I mean, you’re welcome to sleep on the floor now.” Just the thought of sleeping on the floor makes my back ache, and Des seems to have the same reaction.

He exhales. “Fine. But if you spoon me in your sleep, I’m filing for divorce.”

I snort and turn, leading him upstairs. We shuffle quietly past the kids’ rooms.

We don’t say anything as we get into bed. I slide into my usual spot—left side, closest to the door—and Des takes the other side cautiously, still unsure on whether he should. I feel his weight sink into the mattress. It’s an odd sensation seeing as nobody’s been on that side of the bed for two years.

He pulls the blanket up to his chest and stares at the ceiling again.

“This is weird,” he mutters. “But also much more comfortable.”

“I’m a pretty still sleeper, so I’ll stay on my side of the bed.”

“You still sleep on your side? You don’t sleep in the middle?” He turns to me, his eyes big and curious.

“Nah. This way, if I hear something from the kids’ rooms, I can easily roll out of bed. Being in the middle, you have to shuffle in and out. Do you?”

“Oh yeah. I like my space. If I smack you in the face in my sleep, I apologize in advance.” Des stretches out his arms and legs and does a snow angel in the sheets, making sure to whack me in the face at least once. The man may be suave and chic and wear designer clothes on the regular, but he can also be a total goofball.

I stifle a laugh, needing to stay quiet, just like in high school. Except now, it’s not my parents we don’t want to wake up.

“Just like old times,” he says. “Although, you’re missing all the stars.”

Des nods up at my bare ceiling. My childhood bedroom had a glow-in-the-dark galaxy affixed on the ceiling, something I did when I was seven and left to be rediscovered by my fifteen-year-old self.

“I tried getting Lena and Davy to put stars on their ceiling, but they both refused. Lena didn’t care about space, and Davy prefers to sleep in pitch black. I didn’t bother trying with Dean and Lulu.”

“They’re missing out,” Des says.

Silence descends for us again, and the quiet reminds me that I am in bed with another person. I should go to sleep, but I also want to keep talking. My body tingles with nerves.

“I loved those sleepovers,” he says a moment later.

“Me, too.”

“They were the best. I’d raid your fridge for leftovers. Your mom’s spaghetti was out of this world, the garlic bread so soaked with butter it could kill a man.” Des would crash at my place after games, or on Friday nights after we hit up someone’s house party. “How do leftovers taste so good?”

“That’s the magic of the fridge.”

I turn toward him, but he’s still staring up at the ceiling. His profile is outlined by the soft light leaking in from the hall—sharp jaw, messed-up hair, shadows under his eyes.

“Those nights fucking saved me,” he says. “Anything to avoid being home.”

I nod, knowing he can’t see it, but hoping he can sense it.

“My home life was pretty shitty.”

“You never talked much about it.” Des would make jokes about his home life in high school. I’m escaping World War III. I’m staying out of the line of fire. When I’d try to ask him what was happening, he’d wave it off and list off how long until he turned eighteen.

“I wanted to forget them.”

I’d wondered if I should’ve pushed back, asked for details. Even with close friends, there are lines you’re afraid to cross. I took his jokes at face value, believing that if it was truly dangerous, he would let me know.

“My parents would fight about everything,” he continues. “Money. Work. Whose turn it was to do the dishes. I think they were always kind of waiting for an excuse to explode. I’d lie in bed and hear it through the walls.”