Page 28 of The Sky in Summer
“Sorry!” she whispers.
“Who is that?” I ask, getting upright.
“Layla! You here? It’s Ken.”
“My ex-husband!”
“I’ll be there in a minute! Are the boys all right?” she calls.
“They’re in the car. David forgot his EpiPen and I don’t want him to be without it. We’ve been calling you for an hour.”
“Okay. Keep the boys in the car. I’ll be out in a minute.”
Her voice sounds strained like she is pretending normalcy. Even I know that’s not her regular voice. Ken must too.
“What are we going to do?” I ask.
She lifts a finger to her lips, quieting further discussion. Then her hands and shoulders raise in question.
“I’ll stay in here. You go talk to him!” I say, thinking I have come up with the answer.
But her lips tighten.
“Our clothes are all over the place!” she whispers angrily.
“There is nothing I can do about that,” I say with equal strength. “Want me to hide under the bed?”
“Just get dressed. I have nothing to hide from him.”
I have never seen a woman get dressed and presentable in such record time. She twists her hair up and tucks it into itself, and it looks like she spent time doing it. Thank God my shorts and t-shirt are in this room. They’re back on in a half minute. The hard-on is retreating. My shoes are in the kitchen along with Layla’s sweatshirt, bra, and sandals. But she gets a long summer dress out of the closet and throws it over her head.
“Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me!” she whisper-screams.
“That was the idea.”
“Come on.”
I follow Layla out of the bedroom, down the hall, and into the living room where the ex stands waiting. He’s a good-looking guy. Didn’t expect anything less. But what makes me unnecessarily happy is he looks kinda tame. Not her match at all. He must be around our age, but you wouldn’t know it by the hair or clothes. Both are conservative for a young guy. Well, not exactly modern. My conclusion? I have nothing to worry about. We are two completely different types. His expression tells a story. It’s surprise. An eyebrow raises and a wide smile follows.
Deal with it, motherfucker.
“Shit, why did you come in without ringing the bell?” Layla says.
“Hello. I’m Van,” I say, extending a hand.
“Oh, sorry!” Layla adds.
He doesn’t hesitate to respond.
“Ken. Oh I rang the bell. I called. The boys called. You never turn off your cell. You told them you were just going to stay home and watchThe Bachelor, so we were worried. And David needed to have the pen in case.”
“Oh. We didn’t hear you.”
“Obviously,” he chuckles and nods toward the sweatshirt on the floor behind us and the bra hanging from the arm of the barstool.
Layla ignores the comment at first. Like if we just stay still, it will all go away.
“Let me get the EpiPen. I can’t believe he forgot to pack it.”
