Page 12 of Knights Like These
His eyes on my mouth. Twice. I didn’t imagine it. He looked at my mouth while I was talking about ballet parents and again just now, across the island, right before Lily came in like a tiny wrecking ball.
I’ve been in this house for less than twenty-four hours. I’m standing in the guest room of a man I’ve loved since I was a teenager, wearing no bra, thinking about his tattoo, his eyes, and the way he said,that’s pretty brave, actually,as if he were handing me something I didn’t know I needed.
My phone buzzes. It’s Lauren. I swear she has a sixth-sense.
Lauren:How’d you sleep?
Me:Fine.
Lauren:And?
Me:And nothing. Having coffee. Everything’s normal.
Lauren:Liar.
I put the phone down. She’s not wrong.
Chapter Four
Stretching
Archer
A little while later, Sydney goes for a run.
I know this because I hear the front door close at seven, and then I watch her from the kitchen window like a psychopath as she stretches on the porch steps and heads down the sidewalk. Ponytail swinging. Tiny shorts. Those lean dancer’s legs eating up the pavement.
I look away. Make the twins breakfast. Lily wants waffles. Luke wants toast, triangles, light butter. I can do this. I’ve been doing this for months. I don’t need to stand at the window like I’ve never seen a woman run before.
The twins are fed and parked in front of a cartoon when Sydney comes back. I hear the front door, hear her kick off her shoes, and then I walk into the living room to grab Luke’s water cup and—
I stop.
She’s in the doorframe between the living room and the hallway. One leg up. Straight up, heel resting against the frame above her head, her body folded forward over her standing leg, hands gripping the doorframe. Her running shorts have ridden up, and her tank top has shifted, and she is bent in half in mydoorway with a flexibility that should be illegal, and I just look at her, like my brain has left my body.
She glances over her shoulder. “Oh, hey. Good run. Your neighborhood is really nice.”
“Great,” I say. My voice sounds like I swallowed sandpaper.
She switches legs. The other one goes up. Same position. Same devastating geometry. Her back arches slightly as she deepens the stretch, and her tank top pulls tight across her chest, and I can see the line of her sports bra through the fabric and the curve of her waist and the muscles in her thigh—
I turn around and walk into the kitchen.
I open the fridge. I don’t need anything from the fridge. I stand there with the cold air hitting my face, and I grip the shelf until my knuckles go white, and I think about hockey. I think about defensive formations. I think about the penalty kill and shot trajectories and the specific angle of a glove save and definitely not about Sydney’s leg above her head in my doorframe.
She’s been stretching in front of me since she was fourteen years old. I’ve seen her stretch a thousand times. It’s never once been a problem.
It’s a problem now.
I close the fridge. Pick up a glass of water I already poured and drink the whole thing standing at the sink, staring out the window at my backyard, willing my pulse to return to a normal human rate.
From the living room, Lily yells, “Syd, can you do the splits?”
“Sure can.”
“SHOW ME.”
I leave the kitchen, go upstairs, and take a cold shower.
