This Changes Everything by Gretchen Galway Page A

closed her eyes, memories of the way her body had reacted to a little hugging and kissing, all done in jest, washed over her.
    How embarrassing. She wasn’t fifteen. She’d been married, for God’s sake. She should be immune to a little playing around.
    It’s just that it had been so long. So very, very long. Years of living as a cautious recluse had made her as needy as a dried-out houseplant in front of a watering can.
    The bathroom door opened. “Cleo?”
    “Yes?”
    “I’m going to have to sleep with you.”
    Her heart lost a beat. “Excuse me?”
    “I don’t fit in the bathtub.”
    She wondered if it was too late to call a cab. Laughing silently, she rolled onto her side and curled into a protective ball. “All right, then. You can use the bed. Just don’t hog the covers.”
    “Don’t hog. Got it.”
    The lights went out. As he climbed into bed, he made a funny sound she realized was supposed to be the oink of a pig.
    “You poor man,” she said. “You’re going to be so hungover tomorrow.”
    The snoring began instantly.
    Poor him? she thought. Poor me.

7
    W hen Sly woke , furry-tongued and cotton-brained, the bed was empty. He rolled out onto the floor and staggered over to his pants, lumped in a pile by the TV. He pulled out his phone, glad he hadn’t forgotten it at the bar last night, and squinted at the screen. Looking at his phone always helped wake him up, no matter how much he wanted to slip back into unconsciousness. His calendar scrolled past with today’s agenda, his list of longer projects flickered at the top of the screen, and unanswered text messages popped up one by one.
    As he plugged back in to his life, he remembered Cleo. She must be at the spa, getting her massage. And as his mind cleared, he had the sense to see her clothes were still in the dresser, and her muddy sandals parked next to her empty backpack in the closet.
    She hadn’t bailed. Grunting with relief, he went into the bathroom to wash up and rehydrate. Touching her had crossed a line, a line he’d been trying not to think about. Perhaps before that moment at her apartment a couple of weeks ago, he could’ve kissed her for fun and it wouldn’t have meant anything. Now it meant something. He just didn’t know what.
    Instead of taking a shower, he got dressed for running and went out, hoping to sweat out the rest of the poisons he’d poured into his body the night before. It was already past nine, late for him, and kids were already swimming in the pool. It still looked like rain, although none had fallen. Perfect for running.
    An hour later, sweaty but refreshed, he was limping past the pool on his return when he heard his name. He scanned the few bodies stretched out on the deck chairs, all but the children wearing long-sleeved shirts and pants on the overcast autumn morning, but didn’t see who had called him.
    “Sylvester!” It was Teresa, waving to him from the water. She jumped out at the edge and strode over. “Back from a run?”
    He nodded, careful to keep his gaze above her chin. For a second he’d glimpsed erect nipples pressing against her sheer white one-piece, and she wasn’t making any moves toward one of the fluffy towels stacked nearby.
    “I saw you at the bar last night,” she said.
    That wasn’t good. He’d been hammered and alone, like a wounded baby deer just begging for the she-wolf to eat him. “I bet that wasn’t a pretty sight.”
    “Oh, I don’t know.” She gave him a naughty smile. “Even at your worst, you’re not bad. Not bad at all.”
    He made a show of wiping the sweat off his forehead. Maybe his ripe odor would drive her off. “I should get going.”
    “I didn’t see Cleo last night.” She looked around. “She doesn’t run with you?”
    He wasn’t going to explain anything; it only encouraged her. “She’s expecting me now. Excuse me.” Returning his neon-green earbuds to their conversation-blocking location on his head, he began to leave.
    “Hope