Page 10 of Hush Money
We sit in silence for a minute before he pushes to his feet.
“I’ll grab you a towel. The guest room is all yours,” he says quietly. But as he turns to go, I reach up and grab his sleeve. He looks down at me, his eyebrows knit together.
“I, uh…I don’t…” I try to say. “I don’t…”
I don’t know how to tell my maybe-not-ex-best friend that I don’t want to sleep by myself. Because after everything he just did for me, the last thing I should be doing is asking him for something—particularly something that sends a million other confusing mixed signals. And my signals are so crossed I don’t even know what I’m sending out.
He doesn’t say anything. He just pats my hand and walks away, headed down the hallway toward the bedrooms.
Fuck.I wish I wasn’t such a fucking lunatic sometimes. After more than a decade, he answered my vague S.O.S., he drove across town, rescued me from my own house and husband, and gave me shelter and a literal shoulder to lean on. And now I want him to…what? Read me a bedtime story? Cuddle?
He could have a girlfriend for all I know. I’ve been a tad preoccupied with my own shit. I have no idea?—
Just as I’m about to spiral off into a ruthless game of “what-if,” he returns from the dark hallway. He has a large comforter in his hand and two pillows. He throws one down on one end of the couch and the other on the opposite end. He opens the blanket and spreads it out over me and the other end of the couch, and then he sits down on the other end and pulls it over himself.
He’s sleeping out here with me.
He won’t even suggest a bed—for a number of very important reasons.
But he knows I don’t want to be alone.
So we’re sharing the couch.
He’s not leaving.
I settle down into my nook of the couch, laying my head on the ultra-comfy foam pillow he brought out for me. The pillowcase smells like fresh linen, and as I breathe it in, I realize how exhausted I am.
I start to let myself get sleepy when thoughts of Tanner start to descend.
The look in his eyes when he asked me about Keaton.
The way he blocked the doorways to control where I could move in the house.
The hole he punched in the drywall.
The glass bowl we got as a wedding gift, shattered on the floor.
The grip he had on my wrist.
I don’t even realize that my leg is jumping with anxiety until Keaton slides his hand over my thigh, gripping it lightly. It sends a shock through my body, both a zap to reality and a jolt of energy that goes right to my core.
“I’m right here, Eve,” he whispers in the dark. I nod, sliding my hand down to his. Our fingers lock, and my brain starts to quiet.
I don’t know what tomorrow brings. But I remember what he said earlier.
Not tonight.
Tomorrow.
KEATON
Ishould move.
I should get up and move.
I should untangle her legs from mine.
I should free my sweatpants from the death grip she’s had on the fabric since she finally fell asleep last night.
