Page 81 of The Cul-de-Sac War

It was eight o’clock, but his hands found themselves digging spoonfuls from the coffee bag. Pouring water into the coffeemaker. From the kitchen window he could see the glow from the lamp in her bedroom.

Later, in the darkness of his bedroom on his bed, he sat. Took a sip of his coffee as he looked from his window into hers.

And contemplated.

What was going through Bree Leake’s mind while she paced the length of her room, talking into her cell phone? Who was she talking to? The girl Anna? Her mother?

She had changed clothes since dinner. Her jeans replaced with sweatpants, the soft-spun pink sweater, which he couldn’t help noticing as he’d rubbed arms with her at dinner, replaced with a holey Gatlinburg-Pittman High School T-shirt.

Chip pulled the scarf off his neck and dropped it on the bed.

There was something beautiful yet strange in the number of expressions flying across Bree’s face as she paced. Her eyes were free of the annoyance they held whenever he was in her presence. Dropped was the wall she put up whenever they stepped outside in the mornings at the same time. And yet something stiff, complex, creased her forehead as she walked, her mouth tipping up and down in what appeared to be attempts at smiling. Like she was trying to keep herself together while her face stated clearly: she was not okay.

She stopped pacing. Turned her back to the window. Started to nod vigorously.

When the heel of her hand started wiping at her temple, he realized he was standing.

He shouldn’t be watching this.

Chip flicked on his bedroom light and moved downstairs, finishing off his cup before he hit the landing. He should let Bree handle her own affairs. She had plenty of people in her life who could swoop in and assist if needed. Plenty of people she’d want to talk to. Who was he, anyway? He was probably the last person on earth she’d ever discuss her life with.

He felt pent-up energy (no thanks to the caffeine) and dumped his coffee mug in the kitchen sink. He could go on a run, sure, but his calves still ached from the long mountain-bike trail he’d done yesterday with Russell. One glance around the room confirmed at least three house projects he could be doing, but his eyes just roved from one to another without enough interest to stop. He could reply to his mother’s group email discussing Easter plans. Yes. This was the perfect time to finally get to it.

Chip moved to his office and pushed his desk chair out.

As he sat down, he felt a jab at his thigh.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out Dan’s business card.

Set it on his desk beside his computer.

Looked at it.

Frowned.

She had her parents. She could talk with Evie. The girl Birdie, who was at her house daily these days. Mrs. Lewis.

Even after only a few months in this town, Bree had a thousand shoulders to cry on.

Not his.

There was no way she’d cry on his shoulder. Even if a part of him, a strange, small part, wanted her to.

He tapped on the computer and waited as the monitor woke up.

The cursor flashed at him on the password line, waiting.

His fingers hovered over the keys.

He glanced out his window.

Exhaled.

Stood.

He walked back up the stairs and peeked through the bedroom window. Bree was no longer on her phone but sitting on the edge of her bed. Alone. Her head sunk into her hands.

Within seconds, he was out the door and standing on her doorstep. He rang the doorbell and waited . . .