Page 45 of Dear Debbie

Then my gaze drops to her dresser. There’s a T-shirt crumpled up on top of the dresser, and it looks several sizes too big for Harley to wear. Before I can stop myself, I pick it up and realize that it’s a man’s T-shirt.

And there’s something achingly familiar about it. Not just about the way it looks but the way it smells.

“I sleep in that,” Harley says quickly, tugging it out of my hands. “I love sleeping in oversize T-shirts. Don’t you?”

Except the T-shirt doesn’t smell like Harley. The entire apartment is heavy with the distinctive scent of her perfume or laundry detergent or whatever it is. But that T-shirt smells different. Like men’s cologne and something else.

Sweat.

“Well,” I say brightly, “why don’t we have some lunch?”

“Sounds great!”

I follow Harley back to the living room, but I realize that I have suddenly lost my appetite.

36

HARLEY

I can’t decide if I should tell Cooper that his wife discovered his shirt in my bedroom.

I couldn’t believe it when she zeroed in on it. She couldn’t quite recognize it—she wasn’t certain—but she was suspicious. And then she brought it to her nose and sniffed it. I thought for sure I was busted when she did that. After all, a woman knows what her husband smells like.

Yet she didn’t say a word. So maybe we’re safe.

The funny thing is that when she went back into the living room to eat the salad with me, I was almost disappointed that she didn’t call me out on it. Maybe I wanted to get busted. I didn’t have to invite her to my house—we could have met somewhere else closer to the gym. And even if we did meet here, I had plenty of time to stuff that T-shirt in a drawer, but instead, I left it right where she could find it. It was almost exhilarating when Debbie picked up her husband’s T-shirt, trying desperately to place it.

Right now, we’re in my living room, eating the salad she made. It’s nothing special but it tastes pretty good, thanks to that miso ranch dressing. I’ll have to ask her where she got it. It’s been a long time since I had a friend I could share recipes with.

It makes me sad to think that I don’t have any close friends anymore. My last one was my college roommate, Mariah. But Mariah got married and had a baby, and after that, every text message exchange we had included a photo of her baby doing something she thought was “so adorable.” I couldn’t even talk about the weather without her sending me a photo of her baby holding a thermometer or something. I finally snapped and told Mariah that I had absolutely no interest in the constant photos of her ugly daughter. After that, our friendship sort of fizzled.

Debbie is talking about her garden now, which is obviously her favorite topic, but I don’t care about her stupid flowers. There’s only one reason why I’ve become friends with Debbie Mullen, and that’s to pump her for information about Cooper, although, as always, I try to be casual about it, like I barely even remember who he is.

“So…” I take another bite of salad, crunching the lettuce between my teeth. “How is your husband doing? What did you say his name was? Carter? Connor?”

She gives me a funny look that I can’t quite interpret. “Cooper.”

“Right. So how is Cooper?”

Her tone is disinterested. “He’s fine.”

“What did you say he does for a living?” I prompt her. “Something in an office?”

“He’s an accountant.”

“Right.” I snap my fingers as if I didn’t already know all this. “That’s sort of boring. He’s a bit of a nerd then?”

“A bit,” she concedes, although I disagree. Cooper might be an accountant, but he’s definitely not a nerd. Nobody who saw him with his shirt off would think so. “Not as much as me. And he’s hopeless with any technology. He needs my help to turn on the computer.”

I already know that’s true. It has made stalking Cooper online an exercise in frustration. I prefer men who post everything they do and everywhere they go on social media so I can gauge exactly what they’re thinking. But Cooper is older than me—old enough that posting minute-to-minute updates online is not a priority for him, like it is for a lot of men my age or younger.

“He sounds nice,” I say before she can start talking about her garden again. “You’re lucky to be married to a nice guy.”

She doesn’t answer me right away. She seems to be considering her response carefully as she stabs a piece of tomato with her fork. “He’s nice” is all she says.

“Good father?” I press her. I like the idea of Cooper being a good father. Mine was shit. I don’t want to blame everything bad I’ve done on daddy issues, but it would have been nice if he ever said two words to me, that’s all I’m saying.

“Great father,” she confirms.