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“Of course. Do you want to stay? We can have lemonade out here so the kids won’t think we’re spying on them, then we can slowly sneak around the side of the house to, you know, spy on them.”
I laugh. “Nah. I know you’re on top of it.”
Zoey and I had a detailed conversation about the rules for Damien and Daphne’s “hangouts,” including no closed doors. Basically, they don’t get any privacy at all. I’m really not worried—I know Zoey checks on them often. Besides, Damien is equally terrified and in awe of Ethan, whose wildly popular young adult fantasy series he read last year.
“Mmkay.” She glances over my head. “Lucas is home! Crazy.”
I scowl, but I’m fighting a laugh. “Subtle. What time should I be back?”
Zoey huffs dramatically. “It’s really too bad Damien is a boy. Otherwise, I’d tell you in the morning.”
My sigh contains a groan. “Zo.”
“Fine, fine. It’s four now, so, eight? I’ll feed them dinner and they can watch a movie with Ethan and me.”
“Okay, great. Thanks.”
My efforts at not letting my relief show fail, and Zoey grins evilly. “Go on, wild woman. Get out of here.”
My laugh is strained, my heart suddenly fluttering in my chest. I thank Zoey again, then walk off the porch and pull out my phone to text Lucas. What I need is a distraction, and there’s only one distraction I want.
Just dropped Damien off at Rose House. Want company?
His reply comes seconds later and melts the hair off my head.
Come here right now
I wonder if he’s still mad at me for ignoring him yesterday. If he’s still in the mood to punish me. I kind of hope he is, a fact I refuse to examine. My skin feels too tight, my nerves strung to the point of breaking.
I need the release he can give me.
I walk faster, crossing the street at a jog, only to pull up short at the end of the driveway. There’s a familiar black pickup truck parked behind Lucas’s rental car. My steps slow just as the front door opens on a petite brunette with a big smile: Macy, Billy’s wife.
“Celeste! I was so glad when Lucas said you were joining us. I’m making cocktails in the kitchen. The men are out back. You’re staying for dinner, right? We brought stuff for fajitas.”
I return her enthusiastic hug, my smile strained at the edges. “Good to see you! Um, sure, I can hang for dinner.”
It should be good to see her. I hate that I’m disappointed. I hate that when I walk out back and see Billy—his familiar smile landing like a spike in my chest—I realize that perhaps Lucas is still punishing us both.
36
Celeste wants to murder me.
I sort of want to murder myself, so I can’t really blame her. She’s barely looked at me since she got here, which isn’t a surprise but still makes my chest feel heavy and tight.
I fucked up when I didn’t warn her that Billy and Macy were here. I don’t even have a good excuse. I wasn’t thinking about anything but wanting her close to me.
And now I’ve thrown in her face everything she can’t stand about what’s happening between us, which boils down to the fact that I’m not Jeremy.
Not the right man.
Whereas I can see Celeste’s polite mask crumbling slowly to dust over the course of dinner, Billy and Macy only see what she presents to them: her usual bubbly, chatty self, all smiles and charm. Or maybe they sense something because not long after dinner is cleared, Macy delivers the exit line common to parents the world over: they have to put the kids to bed.
No one voices the fact that the kids are in the perfectly competent hands of their grandparents.
We all hug and smile and wish good nights and good lucks, and Celeste and I walk them out. I’m a little surprised that she doesn’t leave with them—a little suspicious, too.
Billy gives us a long look and a giant smile before driving away.
