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We fall silent—well, silent except for the sound of the dog’s slurping and our forks hitting the ceramic and the soft sigh she lets out when her plate is clear.
Somehow mine is too, so when she reaches out, says, “You cooked, I’ll do the dishes,” I let her take the plate and walk away from me.
“Who’s in the picture?” I blurt.
Like a fucking idiot.
She freezes, the plates hovering over the sink for a moment before she sets them in the basin and turns on the water, almost drowning her out when she says, “My ex-boyfriend and my sister.”
There’s way too much information in that short sentence, in those few words.
They’re screaming out for someone to ask more about them—formeto ask since I’m the only one here. But I can’t bring myself to actually form the words.
Then I don’t need to.
“I found them together in my bed,” she whispers.
I blink. Because that is pretty much the last thing I expect her to say.
“Yesterday afternoon.”
I blink again.
Okay, I stand corrected.Thatis pretty much the last thing I expect her to say.
“I went home early because I got fired—”
Fuck.
“And there they were, naked and having such a good time that they didn’t notice me.” All the while, the water is running and Nova is scrubbing at the dishes and her shoulders are going higher and higher, creeping toward her ears. “The lease wasn’t in my name,” she whispers and I have to move closer to hear the rest of her words, “so I went back this morning, packed my stuff, and left.” She turns her head to the side. “There’s no point staying where I’m not w-welcome.”
It’s that break in her voice that does it.
I reach past her, turn off the water, and do something supremely stupid.
I pull her into my arms and I hug her.
She sniffs but doesn’t do as I half expect—doesn’t burst into tears, doesn’t collapse against me, doesn’t do the typical M.O. of a hysterical woman. She just stands there in the circle of my arms for eight seconds (exactlyeight because I’m counting) and then she awkwardly pats my back once before stepping away, head turned to the side, eyes diverted. “Right,” she says. “That was weird—”
I scowl, nape going hot, stomach twisting.
“And unexpectedly nice.” She clears her throat, keeps her gaze turned away as my scowl deepens. “Thanks.” Her voice drops. “I’ll just finish the dishes and—”
A yawn.
Getting late.
Thank God.
The sooner this night is over the better.
Because it means she’s another moment closer to getting the fuck out of my house, leaving me to my peaceful existence that’s devoid of women—which means it’s also devoid of the trouble and drama and bullshit they like to sprinkle into my life.
I have friends who are happily paired off, and once I thought that might be my future too.
But I’ve learned.
That shit isn’t real.
