Page 68 of Hate You More

The mirror confirms that my pajamas look like they belong to a ninety-year-old man, both in style and by the number of times they appear to have been washed. The red tartan flannel, well, they’re almost pink now, is aggressively unsexy and the most comfortable thing I own.

In the bedroom, I stare at the bed that looks like it could accommodate a small family. But just in case, I whip off a couple of the pillows and make a no-man’s-land of the middle. I climb in, switch off the light above the nightstand, and pull the quilt up to my neck.

I blow out a breath.

Flop left, then right.

Move onto my back again and stare at the ceiling.

Get it together, Clara. I drum my heels against the mattress in an effort to rid myself of this pent-up energy. Troy cannot walk in and see me having a mental crisis over the sleeping arrangements.

Even if I am.

I drag myself upright with a huff and plump my remaining pillow. Then reach for my phone because my brain is still on blast mode. I pull up a meditation app, but after a few minutes, it becomes clear that my mind is too loud this evening.

The thoughts, they do rotate. Noisily.

It must be so strange having me here. Not to mention difficult, given our past. But dinner went better than I expected. The wine certainly helped.

I wonder if he thinks I deserve being cut off. If he derives satisfaction from knowing I’ve suffered, that I got my comeuppance. That I know the anxiety of an unexpected bill, that I’m well versed in the many jeopardies that can threaten a roof over a head. Not that my experiences absolve me of my actions.

I was young, yes, and there were extenuating factors. Ones I’d rather not think about. But the choices I made, I live with them every day. And maybe that’s what he needs to hear over any kind of apology. Hear me say that when I think of the person I was, when I think of that day, I feel such shame. Maybe I should tell him that. Try to find the words. Maybe— “Why are you naked?”

From the other side of the bed, Troy looks down. “I thought you were sleeping.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” I squeak. I didn’t even hear him come in!

The light goes on, and I blink, my eyes flicking from his bare torso to a pair of pale-blue cotton shorts, the fabric so soft, they leave little to the imagination. I’ve looked down, so now I’ve got to look up, over hard ridges and peaks, over those fun lines of his obliques, over abs, biceps, deltoids, and other muscles I can’t name.

Wowza. He was always a treat to look at, but boy, has he grown.

“Not naked, as you can see.” He gives a little flourish that seems almost like an invitation to check. Tempting, but I manage to restrain myself.

“You’re hardly wearing pajamas either,” I retort.

“I don’t own any.”

“What?” My attention snaps to his face. So I was a little sidelined by the trail of downy hair I don’t recall being so dark.

“Pajamas.” The corner of his mouth lifts as if by a hook. “I don’t own any.”

“Everyone owns sleepwear, Troy. What do you wear when you stay in hotels?”

“Just my birthday suit. These,” he says, snapping the waist that already seems to be valiantly hanging on to that V, “are a concession.” And his expression? You’re welcome.

“They’re a liability,” I splutter. “What happens if you’re rushed into hospital?”

“Then I guess I have bigger things to worry about. And just so you know, if I meet a sudden demise, I’ve asked Max to make sure the coroner does a full toxicology report.”

“I’ll only poison you if I cook.”

“What’s with the pillows?” He absently rubs his fingers against his chest. Who knew men had cleavage?

“It’s a boundary line,” I say as though it’s obvious. “That half of the bed is yours. This is mine.”

“Half? That hardly seems fair when you’re just a little Tater Tot.”

“Call me that again and you will be sorry.”