“The Jonas Brothers, Char. Do you know who the Jonas Brothers are?”
I shrug. “No idea.”
He starts to chuckle; then, bursting out in laughter, he falls into the chair. “You have to be kidding me with this shit.”
“I don’t understand what’s so funny.” Now it’s my turn to blush.
“Char, the Jonas Brothers are a boy band, geared toward tweens. I mean, they’ve aged and now they’re older, but this shirt—this definitely does not belong to Lauren.” Noah’s demeanor changes from fun to serious with a warning look. “I wish you’d quit bringing her into this or acting like I’d let her in the house. You know it’s over. I’ve told you that many times. Finished. No going back. It’s done.”
I nod. Because that’s all I can do in this moment. Especially when I just made an amateur move and wasted an accusation on something baseless.
“Did you have a housekeeper come and clean, or did someone stop by?” He should know I don’t trust people in the house, but . . . the storm, the girl, I remind myself.
Elle.
I’m getting senile at thirty-five, I decide.
“I’m going to wrap this deal up hopefully soon.” He reaches to brush a strand of hair off my face. “Then I want us to go on a vacation, somewhere tropical, a beach with white sand . . .”
“And unlimited piña coladas,” I finish.
His voice softens. “You doing okay? I saw there were tornado sightings last night. I figured that’s why you didn’t answer when I called to check on you.”
“I did have a visitor.”
“The one who the T-shirt belongs to?” He gives me a playful punch on the arm.
“No comment,” I giggle.
“Who was it?”
“A complete stranger. They knocked just when it started to get bad out.”
“In the middle of a storm?”
“Scary, right?”
“Yeah, definitely.”
“It was a teenage girl, drenched and in need of shelter. She seemed sweet enough. I gave her a ride home.”
“Char, was that really smart?”
“She’s harmless. Just a high school student who got stuck. You know how those flash floods and storms can be.”
“Yeah, I do.” His voice falters. “But I can’t protect you when I’m not here.” I ignore his last sentiment, since it has no merit. He’s rarely home and I don’t want to start a fight, but his absence is felt more than his presence.
“She seemed so young and innocent. It made me feel old. I thought about when we first met . . .”
“Freshman year of college. You were arguing with my roommate about his inability to do laundry.”
“He seemed to think it was okay to leave it in the wash for hours without even transporting it to the dryer, while the rest of us waited.”
“Hey, I supported you until you brought it up to our room and accidentally dumped it on my bed, soaking wet.” Noah twists my hair in a knot.
“I was trying to teach him a lesson.”
“That you did.” Noah touches my lower lip. “That’s one thing you’ve always been good at—teaching other people lessons, right or wrong.”
Neglecting his last statement, I turn to look him directly in the eyes, the green flecked with brown—one of his best features, in my book.
I begin, “Do you . . .” Then, balling my hands into tight fists, I continue. “Do you regret what happened with us?”
“What do you mean?”
I wring my hands. “That we weren’t careful . . .”
“It was one time, and it was over a month ago.” Noah gives me a strange look. “Why would I ever regret having sex with you?”
“Because we didn’t . . . we weren’t safe.”
“I’m not worried about it and neither should you. Whatever happens, happens.” His phone buzzes in his pocket as he examines his wristwatch. “Unfortunately, I’m going to have to take a shower and go. Care to join?”
“Of course,” I say, grinning, and he leads me by the hand to the walk-in shower.
After Noah leaves, I busy myself with the laundry, minus the sheets, since they still have whiffs of his scent attached to them. A combination of expensive cologne and sweat. I stick Elle’s tee into the load, chuckling as I reflect on my earlier concerns.
After heading upstairs to where the guest suite, office, and other bedroom are, I pause near the last door on the left. It’s closed, just as it should be.
But is it locked?
Brushing my hand over the doorknob, I flinch as if I’ve been burned. Then, after confirming it’s locked, just like the basement door, I retreat to the laundry room to fold the last of the clothes in the dryer. I pull Elle’s shirt out and sniff, the smell of spring-breeze fabric softener better than the stale cigarette smoke it previously reeked of.
I wonder if she’s a smoker.
As I fold the cotton, still warm from the dryer, a sneaking suspicion tells me that biting her nails isn’t the worst of Elle’s habits.
I wonder if I should’ve asked for her number, but that might’ve been weird, except now I’m holding her displaced shirt in my hand. I feel a responsibility to return it, since I had a favorite concert T-shirt that was my lucky test-day shirt in college. It was actually Noah’s Nirvana one, but still, I would break out in hives if I couldn’t locate it on exam day.
Wondering if I’ll be able to retrace directions back to Elle’s house, I decide to attempt it after a visit to the grocery store.
“Larchwood Avenue wasn’t it,” I murmur to the radio announcer as I drive.
Slowing down on the street, I realize in the daylight that there’s more than one Cape Cod–style house, and they all look the same. All I could make out in the rain was that the front door was bright red, with a large wreath, and so were the shutters.
Déjà vu overcomes me as I pull into the drive, yet I feel weird for the intrusion. After putting the Jeep in park and letting the car idle, I walk up the cobblestone path. The yard’s well kept, the grass is mowed, and a huge elm tree looms over most of the tidy front. Bushes line the walkway, and though I’m no landscape expert, I’ve done enough gardening to know the type—burning bushes, named for their crimson-red color. A perfect complement to the house. Eventually the color of the shrubs will change to green.
After stepping onto the welcome mat, I lift my hand to meet the brass knocker perfectly centered in the middle of the welcome wreath. I take a deep breath that catches in my throat, signaling my stress. I’ve never been a fan of forced social interactions. But you chose to come here, I remind myself. You’re making a nice gesture, returning Elle’s shirt, I chastise myself, and that should make you feel good.
The knocker makes a sharp thwack against the door, and out of habit I tap my foot. The sound of wailing ricochets through the house, and the noise startles me. When Elle mentioned younger siblings, I didn’t expect ones in diapers.
The door swings open, and a haggard woman cradling a baby stands before me. She’s of a totally different ethnicity than Elle, but she did mention she had a stepmom. A short, petite Asian woman with a toddler wrapped around her leg stares at me in frustration. “I just got the baby to sleep.” Her eyes droop, and it’s clear she’s struggling with a newborn.