Текст книги "Every Second With You"

Автор книги: Lauren Blakely

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Trey

I pack up books, and I peer out the window. I load up my sketchbooks. And I wait for a knock.

I jam my clothes into suitcases, and I’m sure a rock will come crashing through my window.

I hear a strange noise in the hallway late one night, and I check the peephole, convinced that Mr. Stewart’s steely gray eyes will stare back at me. But then, I’m betting he’s the kind of man who doesn’t need to do his own dirty work. He probably has a heavy.

Maybe I’m losing my mind, but everywhere I go in the city for the next few days, I feel the hair on my neck stand on end. I watch behind me, scan in front of me, check in doorways, but nothing happens. No one leaps from an alley and jams a pillowcase on my head. No one with a pockmarked face and a broad barrel chest shanks me for taking Mr. Stewart’s supposed girlfriend.

“Why do you think you’re about to be shanked everywhere you go?” Michele asks during my session.

“I can’t believe you just said shanked.”

“I am familiar with popular lingo,” she says, and she doesn’t break my gaze. “So, please answer the question. Where is this fear coming from?”

“Are you saying I’m paranoid?”

She sighs heavily, and I think I might have exasperated Michele for the first time. “No, Trey. I simply want to understand why you’re worked up about this.”

I throw my arms out wide. “Because he’s a fucking dude who hired an escort. Because he’s loaded. Because he happened to be on the same fucking plane when I married Harley, and rather than tuck his tail between his legs, he got up in my face and made damn sure I knew he knew I married the girl I took from him!”

She grins when I say married, shaking her head, still amused that we did it. And we officially did it, too, filing for a marriage license when we returned.

“And so you think, naturally, that he’s going to shank you?”

I push my hands roughly through my hair. “I don’t know. Yes. No. It seems plausible.”

“And what happens then when you move to San Diego? He’s from California, right?”

I nod.

“So, will he hunt you down there?”

I roll my eyes. “Seriously?”

She leans forward in her chair, her hands on her knees. “I am being serious. If you truly think your life is in danger, we need to talk about appropriate cautionary steps. And if this is your fear talking, we need to figure out how to face it.”

“No. I need to run the fuck away from it,” I say.

Because rational talk doesn’t help me. My heart ticks faster, speeding up. I am a jack in the box that someone’s been winding and winding, ready to pop.

I walk with Harley everywhere. I don’t let her go anyplace alone. After I see Michele, I go to Harley’s to help her pack, since we’re leaving in a week.

School is still on break, but she emailed her English major advisor and was told that transferring to a school in San Diego would work fine. She can graduate from here; she just needs to maintain her GPA for the last year and a half, and have her classes approved. Sort of like a year and a half abroad, only abroad is across the country.

After we make it through her summer clothes, she tries again to reassure me. “Trey, it’s been a week now, and nothing happened. I think we’re fine. I think it was just some sort of manly pride on the plane. He probably recognized me, made the comment and then forgot about it,” Harley says, as she zips up a large purple duffel bag. We decided to only take clothes, books and the things we couldn’t leave behind after I sublet my studio in seconds.

“Well, guys like that, I don’t trust,” I say, as my phone buzzes in my back pocket. “We just need to lie low for a little longer.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re ridiculous. Besides, it’s not you or me—” she starts to say, then she stops and shakes her head. I grab my phone to see my parents calling.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Nothing,” she whispers, but she looks worried. “Just answer your call.”

“Hey,” I say into the phone.

“Good evening,” my mother says. “We have a surprise for you. For your move to San Diego. Can you come over tonight?”

“Sure. I’m just helping Harley pack, and then I’ll stop by.”

When I hang up, I tell her that I need to go see them. “But stay here.”

“I will. I’m going to keep packing, and hang with Kristen. Call me later,” she says, and gives me a kiss before I leave.

Twenty minutes later, my mom slides a small white box across the kitchen table to me. There’s a gold bow on the box. I glance from her to my dad. “A gift?”

“I said we had a surprise for you,” my mom says, and for the first time in years, she seems excited, even delighted.

I untie the bow, and open the top of the white box. Inside is a key on a ring with a key fob. Shivers of excitement run through me. My parents did this?

“What is this for?” I ask, though I think I know the answer.

“There’s a new Honda waiting for you at Harley’s grandparents’ house. If you’re going to live in California, you’re going to need a car,” my dad says, and he leans over to give me a hug.

“Thanks, Dad,” I say. Then I stand up, and hug my mom too. “This is amazing. Seriously. This is just so cool. I was going to get us a used car or something. But this is incredible.”

“Now you’re going to have to learn how to drive,” my dad says, pointing out the obvious.

I wave a hand in the air. “I’m sure driving is a piece of cake.”

After more chatting and another round of thank yous, I head out for the night. I press the elevator button for the lobby, then tap the panel twice, as if I’m saying goodbye to my past, to my sins. This elevator used to be the center of my sex-addicted world, and I’d ride it up and down to meet my women, see my women and seduce my women.

Now, as I shoot down the building, I no longer feel the gravitational pull that this contraption exerted on my life. It’s just an elevator, and this is one of the last times I’ll ride in it.

“Goodbye, elevator,” I say as I reach the lobby.

The doors slide open and as I walk across the marble lobby, I see her.

Walking through the open door.

Bundled up in the cold.

A knit cap covering her brown hair.

And her hand in someone else’s hand.

Someone who has eyes like mine.

Green eyes, with gold flecks. Like I’m looking into a mirror.

I stumble against the wall, grabbing onto it so I don’t slump down on the floor because my heart has stopped.

Sloan notices me, and a smile crests across her face. “Trey! How are you?”

My mouth is open, and I try to say something. But my brain is made of tar, and my tongue is coated in glue.

“I haven’t seen you in a few years,” she adds. “How are you?”

“Fine,” I croak out, staring at the little boy next to her.

“How is your art? Are you still drawing? Designing tattoos?”

I nod.

“You were always so talented. And you’ll be pleased to know, I landed a gallery show. You know how I was pursuing my painting career.”

“Right,” I say.

The boy tugs on her hand.

“Oh! Excuse my manners. Trey, this is my son, Teddy. Teddy, this is Trey.”

I open my mouth again and try to say hi, but I’m in that nightmare where you scream and make no sound. Or maybe I’m in the nightmare where you learn you fathered a kid a few years ago, and you’re even more of a fuck-up than you already thought you were.

“Hi,” Teddy says, and the sound of his voice rips through me.

Not because he sounds like me, because he’s fucking two or three or something. But because he has more guts than I do right now. Because I can’t handle seeing his mom.

“He’s artistic, too,” Sloan says in a knowing whisper. “It runs in the family. Anyway, we have a lot of catching up to do. I just moved back into the building a few months ago, and it would be nice to see you again.”

She waves, turns on her heels, and heads to the elevators because this is just another normal night for her.

For me, it’s as if my plans have capsized.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Harley

I dial his number again.

And again.

And again.

He still doesn’t answer. I swear my fingers are turning numb from calling him.

I try his office, but it’s after hours, and it’s closed.

So I have no other recourse but to hail a taxi and head uptown to see Cam.

He texted me this afternoon to say congrats on your wedding. I didn’t think much of his text at first since I was so busy. Then it hit me—I hadn’t told him. The only way he could know would be from Mr. Stewart.

My heart is hammering against my chest, and I understand now why Trey was so worried. I feel so stupid for not thinking of Cam sooner, but I bet that’s why Mr. Stewart never did a thing to us. Because his bone to pick wasn’t with me; it was always with Cam.

I’m the horse that wouldn’t run. I’m the car that wouldn’t start. But to Mr. Stewart, Cam is the man who sold him a bum nag, a lemon of a vehicle. Cam’s the one he has the beef with—Cam’s the peddler of the product that didn’t perform for one ruthless businessman.

I bang furiously on the buzzer when I reach his Upper East Side brownstone.

“C’mon, c’mon,” I say under my breath, hoping he’s here, hoping he’s safe.

I step away from the door and peer up at the second floor window where I see the silhouette of a woman looking past the curtains.

I push hard on the buzzer once more. The harder I press, the more likely he’ll answer, right? But he’s not the one who answers.

“Hello?”

The voice is somewhat familiar.

“Hi. This is Harley. Is Cam okay? I need to see him.”

“Hold on,” the woman says, and I wait as the buzzer goes silent. I wonder who she is. If Cam has a girlfriend, or a friend, or . . . I cringe inside . . . maybe he hired an escort? Or maybe this woman works in his stable? Maybe she took over from me?

“You can come up,” the woman says, and then buzzes me in. I bound up the steps to his apartment—the entire second floor. I go to knock, but the second my knuckles touch the wood someone opens the door.

“Oh.”

It’s Cam’s receptionist; the woman with the straight blond hair in the perfect bob.

“Hi,” I say. “I’m Harley.”

She nods. “I know. Tess,” she says, extending a hand to shake.

“You’re the . . .”

“Yes. I’m the receptionist, and more.”

More. “Is he okay? Because I have this gnawing feeling in my gut.”

“He has a black eye and a cracked rib.”

My heart plummets, and I clasp my hand over my mouth. “No,” I say, shaking my head, as if I can wish away what she said. “Mr. Stewart?”

Tess nods sadly. “Come in. You can see him.”

She guides me through the entryway and into Cam’s living room, where he’s stretched out on the couch, his feet propped up on a coffee table, and his arm wrapped around his midsection, like he’s holding his ribs in place. He’s watching the television, an old episode of Facts of Life on TV Land. When he sees me, he hits mute, and smiles weakly. He’s bruised and battered under his left eye, a small lake of blue ink from where Mr. Stewart must have connected with face.

Then he notices my stomach and his eyes bug out.

“Well, isn’t this a fine how-do-you-do? You been keeping these kinds of secrets from me? Who’s the daddy? Oh, wait. Don’t tell me. It’s your hubby,” he says, and pats the cushion next to him. I sit down.

“Yes, we got married on the same flight Mr. Stewart was on, but I can’t believe he really did this to you. I’m so sorry,” I say, and my chest aches for him—for him taking the hit for me.

“Well, technically he didn’t do it. Some big ass bouncer type who looked like Vin Diesel was responsible. Because if it were Mr. Stewart, I would have grabbed his bald ass, locked him in a choke hold, and made mincemeat of him. But Vinny Boy is a lot bigger and meaner,” Cam says, flashing me a mega-watt smile.

“How can you smile at a time like this? Aren’t you in pain? Doesn’t it hurt?”

“Baby doll, they’ve got these things known as Vicodin, and I fucking love them. Tess gave me two with a nice big glass of cold milk, and bam. I feel no pain,” he says, and Tess perches on the edge of the couch. Cam gazes at her, doe-eyed, and then pats her hand.

My jaw nearly drops when she slides her fingers into his, and clasps his hand in hers.

“Are you guys a couple?” I point from him to her and back.

She nods. “Yes.”

Cam turns back to me, a sappy smile on his face that almost makes me laugh. He’s so loopy right now from the meds. The fact that he’s not moaning and groaning on the floor only makes me feel the slightest bit better. But not much, because I’m responsible for this mess he’s in. “How long?”

He looks at Tess again. “Few months now,” he says. “She got me on the straight and narrow.”

Tess nods proudly.

“Really?”

“Yep,” she says, beaming at Cam with admiration in her eyes.. “He pursued me, and I made it clear he needed to clean up his act, or there’d be no Tess in his life.”

“So you stopped your side business?” I say, shocked that Cam’s no longer a pimp, and no longer a loner.

He shrugs. “What can I say? Couldn’t let a gal like Tess pass me by. I always spied her reading at the desk, and it turned out we had the same taste in books. Besides, getting pummeled in the eye does make a man reassess his priorities in life.”

Tess turns to me. “And I want to thank you for giving him that Sophie Kinsella book,” she says with a flirty bump of her shoulder against him. “We read it together.”

“That’s adorable.” I smile again, and something just feels right about this. About Cam changing his stripes. Even if he never did, I’d still care for him, because his heart is in the right place. But to see him kick his old habits for a woman is even sweeter.

The only problem is, he’s paying my debt, and I can’t let him.

“So, what happened?” I ask again, returning to the issue at hand—the damage Mr. Stewart’s heavy wreaked on my former man. “I feel terrible. This is all because of me.”

“Oh, this one was for the elephants.”

“What?” I ask, furrowing my brow.

Cam sighs deeply, holds his arms out wide, and then winces, as if he just remembered it hurts to gesture like that. “Old Vinny Boy said Mr. Stewart’s elephant charity is way down in donations since the gala. He seems to think there’s a connection between him being stood up by you last summer, and the lack of funds.”

“That’s crazy.”

“I know,” he says. “But what can you do?”

“Cam,” I press. “I need to do something. Or he’s going to keep coming around and hurting you.”

But I haven’t the slightest clue what to do. How on earth can I fend off Mr. Stewart’s random acts of retribution against Cam?

“That man’s crazy. He claimed he’d leave me alone if I shored up his failing charity, but it’s not like I have 50K just lying around. Why does he think I got into the side biz in the first place? Your old man Cam had way too much debt to pay, and I just got myself out of it. Now he thinks I’m going to hand over some blood money,” Cam says, shaking his head.

Tess reaches over and pets his hair. He leans into her touch, and pretends to purr. “Mmmm. That feels good, baby,” he says, and then takes a deep breath. But as he exhales, he winces, his face contorting, his shoulders pulling in.

Shit. I’ve done this to him. I drop my head in my hands. The past is a ghost, lurking in dark corners, hiding in alleys, silent, but dangerous. Even when you think you’ve done your time and made your amends, the past chains you up again, reminding you that you’re a prisoner to all the bad things you’ve done.

Some debts are never paid.

All this time, I thought Miranda would trip me up. That someone from my memoirs would recognize themselves, track me down, and hold my stories against me. But instead, my blood debt is to the man I left alone at a charity fundraiser. A man who loves elephants more than people.

Then my brain hits the brakes, and I swear I can hear my mind backpedal. Not to the gala. But to Miranda.

I raise my head. “Miranda,” I say out loud, her name like a hiss on my tongue.

“Your mom’s editor?”

I can see the deck of cards in front of me, the hand I’ve been dealt. All I have to do is play them right. But I know how to do this. I watched my mother for years. I saw her juggle source after source, story after story. Now all I have to do is play it on the other side. “Cam, do you still have contacts at other papers? Or news outlets? Online? Besides my mom, obviously,” I quickly add.

He blows a stream of air across his lips. “What do you take me for? A one-reporter kind of source? Hell no, baby doll. Haven’t I taught you well? I know everyone.”

“I think I know a way out of this. If there’s a reporter you trust. A reporter who wants to expose the truth.”

Cam nods several times as I tell him my plan. Then he turns to Tess. “Tess, baby, will you bring me my phone?”

“Gladly,” she says.

* * *

Within thirty minutes, the ball is rolling. Cam is juggling phone call after phone call, and pretty soon it’ll be my turn to talk. I’m bubbling over inside, giddy with all the possibilities, but strung out on nerves too as I listen to him prime the pump with an online media reporter who he says moves faster than a comet. He covers the phone with one hand, and mouths, “I love this son of a bitch. He’s an eager mo-fo.”

Tess squeezes his arm, proud of her man.

Then I remember my man. My husband.

I dig around in my purse for my phone, but when I find it there are no missed calls from Trey. With the way he’s been on edge for the last week, I figured he’d have checked in by now. I walk over to the window so Cam has some airspace for his calls, and I dial Trey.

He answers on the fourth or fifth ring. But he’s silent, just breathes out a hard, heavy sigh.

“Hey, I have to tell you what’s going on,” I say.

“Oh.” That’s his only reply.

“It’s about Mr. Stewart. And I think it could be good. At least, I hope it will be,” I say, crossing my fingers.

“Okay,” he says, but his voice is dead. It’s as if he’s been turned inside out with emptiness.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

“You sound terrible.”

He exhales, and it sounds like air leaking out of a mattress.

The little hairs on my arms rise. “What’s going on? You’re freaking me out. Where are you?”

“The Lion’s Den,” he says, and my blood goes cold. That’s what he calls his parents’ building, but only when he’s referring to the pull the women there exerted over him.

“Did something happen?”

Another long, deep exhale. “I think I fucked up, Harley. Big time.”

I close my eyes, and press my hand against the wall to steady my swaying heart. Oh god, please don’t tell me he cheated on me. I don’t think I could take that kind of damage. I’d never forgive him, either. “What do you mean? Did you cheat on me?”

He scoffs. “No fucking way.”

“Then get out of their building and come see me. Now. I’m at Cam’s house.”

“What?” He nearly shouts into the phone, and I have to hold it away from my ear. I give him the address, and he tells me he’ll be here soon.

I return to the epicenter of the apartment, to the virtual war room—Cam’s couch and coffee table. After he finishes his call, he points a finger at me. “It’s showtime, baby doll. Henry from the HuffPo wants to talk to you.”

“Okay,” I say, taking a deep breath before I call Henry and tell him that I’m Anonymous, the author behind the recent bestselling tell-all sex-tale, and that I was blackmailed into writing it by the editor-in-chief of the publishing house.

Chapter Thirty

Trey

I enter the building of my wife’s former pimp. Technically, this should bother me. But I am wrecked, and all I can think about are those green eyes.

Scratch that.

There are other thoughts invading my brain now, too, smashing into each other like mad bumper cars. Like the fact that Teddy is about two and a half, and the math adds up. Like the fact that she let me fuck her free-range, telling me she was on the pill. Like the fact that she said her husband never had sex with her. Like her saying Teddy is artistic, too, because that’s what Sloan and I talked about—sex and art, art and sex. She was the only one I remotely felt a thing for. She was a painter, and we had that connection, and we talked about creating.

What if we created a kid?

How fucking irresponsible can I be? Knocking up women, left and right. I deserve a million scars. I should be locked up. I need to put my dick in jail.

When I reach the second floor, Harley is holding open the door. She lets it fall shut behind her, so we’re standing in the hallway outside Cam’s home.

This is more surreal than a Dali. But then, that’s my life these days. This month. This year.

She reaches for me, brushes a hand through my hair. Her touch is so soft, so sweet, and I don’t deserve it.

“What’s going on?” she asks, and I can hear the potholes in her voice. They match mine.

I lean against the wall, bang the back of my head against it twice, three times. “I ran into this chick I used to . . .” I let my voice trail off. She knows what I mean, and she grimaces. “I saw her in the lobby with her—” I stop talking, and it’s as if I’m being cut by words. They are slicing my throat, turning me mute.

Then she gasps. “Oh my god. The kid with the green eyes.”

My jaw drops. “You saw him?”

“Before we went to San Diego. When we were having dinner with your parents and I lost my earring in the lobby. Oh my god. He has eyes just like you,” she says, and her face turns pale.

I hold my hands out wide. “I know,” I say, the desperation coating my voice. “And Sloan, she made these comments that made it seem like he was my kid. What the fuck am I supposed to do? I’ve finally started feeling like I’m ready to be a father to our baby, and then this. What the hell? What if I have a kid already that I didn’t know about? And shouldn’t I be here, trying to help raise him or something?”

“Slow down, Trey. Just slow down. Did you talk to her? Did you ask her?”

“No,” I say as if that’s a crazy idea. “I just ran into her. How was I supposed to ask her?”

“I don’t know, but even if he has your eyes and looks like you, you still need to just ask her.”

“And then what?”

“And then, deal with it then,” she says, parking her hands on her hips. She no longer looks white as a sheet. She no longer seems scared. She is so strong, and I want to siphon off just one-tenth of her courage.

“But what if I’m going to be a terrible father?”

She shoots me a sharp-eyed stare. “You’re not. You’re going to be a great father. But Trey, you don’t even know if this kid is yours, and we’re standing around conjecturing, and it’s kind of ridiculous. You need to man up, and go talk to Sloan.”

I cringe when she says her name. Because I hate that Harley even knows the name of someone I used to sleep with—as if all my shame has been dug up with a shovel and tossed in front of me. “Fine. I’ll go there tomorrow.”

She juts her chin out at me. “Tomorrow? She just went into her apartment tonight. It’s eight-thirty, and she has a two-year-old. She’s home now. You go take care of this now,” she says pointing wildly to the street, making it clear I need to get my shit straightened out.

“But what if . . .”

“What if what?” She stares hard at me. “I don’t want to play ‘what if’ games. I want you to find out, and then we’ll deal with it.”

I let out a breath I barely realized I was holding. “We’ll deal with. Together, right?”

She smiles once, and shakes her head. “I’m married to you now. Yes, together. Didn’t you once tell me there’s nothing on this planet we cannot get through?”

“Yeah, when you were worried about your memoirs after I redid your ink.”

“Well, I’m taking care of my memoirs now.”

“You are?”

“I have a plan,” she says, and then holds up her index and middle fingers, crossing them as she tells me her idea, and it’s daring.

“That’s ballsy.”

“I hope it works,” she says, a touch of nerves invading her bravado.

“It will,” I say, giving her the confidence I wish I felt in myself.

“You go take care of your stuff, and you call me later.”

* * *

This time I don’t stand frozen by the elevator. I walk purposefully down the hall to her door. I shut off my brain. I tie up my heart. And I stuff any fear down the garbage chute.

I raise my fist to knock.

Ten seconds later, I can hear someone sliding the chain, unbolting the door, and opening it.

Sloan answers, with her brown hair piled high on her head in a twist, a slouchy sweater revealing a bare shoulder, and a glass of red wine in her hand.

Music plays softly from inside her plush apartment, and I think it’s Sade’s Never As Good as The First Time. Talk about the lion’s den. More like an alligator pit.

“Trey, how are you? Do you want to come in?”

“Yes, please,” I say.

She opens the door all the way, and I cross the threshold into her home. It’s entirely different from when I used to visit her after school. Back then, her place was stark and sleek, with chrome bar stools lining the kitchen counter, and gray couches with sharp edges. Now, the masculine hardness is gone, and it’s all soft femininity—vases of fresh flowers line the table, the couch is a lush cranberry color, candles are lit, and artwork hangs on the walls.

“Teddy’s asleep. Can I offer you a glass of wine?”

“No, thank you,” I say, and it’s the first time she’s ever offered me alcohol. It’s the first time I’ve seen her since I’ve been old enough to drink. She sits on her soft couch, and folds up her long legs under her.

I follow her into the living room, but don’t join her on the couch. I shift back and forth on my feet, glancing around. “So, um, do you live alone now?”

“Just Teddy and me,” she says. “And it’s wonderful.”

“Cool,” I say, and my palms are sweaty so I rub them against my jeans.

“Why don’t you sit?” She gestures to the open space on the couch next to her. I sink down on the end by the armrest, as far away from her as I can be.

“So, how are you?” I ask, wishing there were a simple way to ask the question I’m here for.

“I’m great. I have a show at the Hager Gallery in a month for some of my paintings, so I’ve been busy prepping for that. As well as getting settled back into the apartment,” she says, gesturing broadly around her home.

I swallow. My throat is so damn dry, I almost wish I took her up on her offer for wine. “You said you just moved back in the building,” I say, repeating what she told me in the elevator simply to get the conversation started.

She nods, and then runs her long, manicured fingernails through her hair, the strands falling through her fingers. “Yes, I divorced my husband shortly after you and I were involved,” she says. Talk about cutting through the bullshit. But then, Sloan was always direct. Like the day three years ago when she told me bluntly that she wanted me, and within an hour we were tangled up in her sheets. “But I moved out for a while there, when we were in court. We recently settled and I got the apartment, so I moved back in.”

“That’s great.”

“Well, as they always say, at least I got the house. And it’s fantastic to be in this location, since Teddy has so many friends around here, and we spend all our time in this area of town.”

“You didn’t have a kid when I knew you. You enjoying being a mom?” I ask, hoping, praying that I can get to the heart of the matter soon, but at least we’re circling the topic.

“I love it,” she says, as if each word tastes delicious. “We do Mommy and Me art classes, and we go to the playground, and I take him to museums.”

“You said his father was artistic.”

“Oh yes. Very much so.”

Her ex-husband was a hedge fund manager, and that knowledge makes my heart speed. “And does he see Teddy much?”

She laughs. “Oh, god no. Not at all.”

Shit. Now it’s about to spring out of my chest. “Mr. McKay is never around?” I ask, as if I can elicit a different answer if I ask a different way.

She shoots me a curious look, as if my question has thrown her. “But that’s how it was when we were together, Trey. Don’t you remember?”

She rests her arm on the back of the couch, inching nearer to me. Holy shit. She’s the same fucking Sloan. Such a seductress.

“My husband never wanted to be with me,” she continues. “He was all about money. He wanted more of it in life. More money. But I wanted art, and I wanted passion. You gave that to me. I needed it so badly,” she says, and there’s desperation in her voice, but sexiness, too. Desperately sexy—that’s Sloan. “We had some good times, didn’t we?”

I part my lips, but don’t speak.

“Great times, actually,” she says, and then closes her eyes, and sighs deeply, like she’s taking a trip down naughty memory lane in her head. She opens her eyes, and leans forward. “You were the best sex of my life, Trey. And you were only eighteen. But my god, you made me feel extraordinary. You made me feel beautiful and passionate and alive,” she says, and she runs her hands down her sides, like her whole body is lighting up with the memories of our sex, and I’m going to need to leave so fucking soon. Not because I want her, because I don’t. But because I shouldn’t even be hearing this. “You pretty much ruined me for other men. Don’t you know that?”

I sink back into the cushions, trying to angle away from her, for distance, for sanity. Then I say fuck it. I need to rip off this goddamn Band-Aid. “Shit, Sloan, I gotta ask. Is he mine? Is Teddy mine? I mean, his eyes, and the timing, and everything.”

The whole apartment turns hazy, as if the walls and the floor have entered a slow-motion zone, and the seconds after my question have made landfall stretch on for hours, like an endless road at night. Sloan’s face is inscrutable. Then she opens her mouth, her bright white teeth gleaming. She throws her head back and laughs. “No. No. Is that what you thought? Is that why you’re here?”

“Uh, yeah,” I say, and relief washes over me. I swear I can feel it spreading in my body, like warmth from a fireplace.

“Teddy’s father is a sperm donor,” she says in a clear and determined voice. “And the reason he looks like you is you were my template.”

My jaw drops. “What?”

That’s the strangest thing I have ever heard.

She nods. “Like I said, you made me feel things. You made me feel beautiful and passionate. And those were the things I’d been missing in my life with my husband, so after we divorced and I wanted a child, I went to a sperm bank. And I found someone who was artistic, who was tall, who had gorgeous green eyes.”

I scrub a hand across my jaw, let out a long stream of air. I shake my head once more, as if the strangeness will go away.

Go away.

Like me.