I roll down the window, like an idiot.
Matt leans into the car, casually resting both forearms against the bottom of the window, his hands hanging over the passenger’s seat.
He has great hands. Long fingers, and nails that he keeps perfectly trimmed. I have a thing about hands. I once ghosted a guy after one date because his nails were long. That was it. He was really nice, and cute, and we had a great time. But I wanted to hurl every time I thought about those fingernails.
He’s wearing his dark hair much shorter these days. I wonder whether he’s starting to lose it. The petty part of me hopes so.
His eyes were the first thing I noticed about him—blue and bright—and they’re hard to look away from, even now.
“Hi, Luce,” he says.
This is a real shit stain of a situation I’ve gotten myself into here, so I say nothing.
I imagine closing the window, trapping his neck, hitting the gas, and dragging him down the street.
“Let’s kill—”
“Were you going to knock, or just sit out here all night?” he asks. I sigh. “I was just driving by.”
“You’re parked.”
“I was curious to see how the house looked.”
He glances back at it, and then at me. “Since you’re here, do you want to come in?”
I give him a truly baffled look. “I don’t think your wife would appreciate that.”
“We’re getting divorced. She moved back to Houston.”
I try not to smile. I swear to god, I try not to be the asshole that I am, but I utterly fail.
If he sees the twitch of my lips, he pretends not to.
“Come in,” he says. “Have a drink.” He’s got that glint in his eye, the one that means he’s already debating whether to have sex in his bed or on the kitchen table. He loved having sex on the kitchen table. We picked out a very sturdy one specifically for that purpose. I wonder whether he still has it.
No. Shit. No. I am not doing this again.
I look out the front window. “You sure you want to be alone with me?” “Lucy.” He sighs heavily. It’s his “Lucy is being ridiculous again” sigh. “Lucy, just go to your parents’. Please? Just for a few days. I need to
think.” He stood near the front door as he said those words to me, nervously cracking his knuckles. I remember thinking he was poised to make a quick escape.
He’d looked terrified. Of me. I’d been home from the hospital for less than twenty-four hours. The police hadn’t started seriously questioning me. The media hadn’t even turned on me yet.
But Matt? Matt was sure I was guilty. My husband was too scared to be in the same house with me.
“Maybe some other time.” I put the car in drive, and he steps back onto the sidewalk.
I don’t look in the rearview mirror as I drive away.
