“But why would you hate yourself?” Bree asked, burying her hands deep in her swirling-cotton-skirt pockets.
“Because I’m a snoop. A sneak. A spy.” Sarah smiled hard even as she ground her back teeth together. “You should see me, going through his wallet and pockets. His travel bag and desk drawers. I examine everything, even his damn restaurant receipts.”
“You think he’s cheating,” Meg said.
Sarah nodded.
“And what have you found?” Cass asked softly.
“Nothing.” Sarah laughed, slightly hysterical. “And that’s just it. I can’t find proof of anything . . . or he can explain everything . . . and then I just look stupid. I feel stupid. And the self-loathing kicks in.”
“But if Boone was the one who cheated, why would you hate yourself?” Cass persisted.
Sarah fought for her composure. “Because I stayed with him. And I didn’t stay because I was strong. I stayed because I didn’t think I’d survive without him.” Her lips curved, as she tried to hide the tears in her eyes. “Pathetic, huh?”
“That’s so harsh,” Cass protested.
“But true.” Sarah’s voice hardened “I used to be somebody. I used to have confidence, a sense of self-worth. But I don’t anymore. I want it back. I need it back. Bad.”
* * *
Sarah didn’t drink that night. Not by choice. There was no wine, and the tequila was gone. She could have walked to the store on the corner and bought a bottle, but she didn’t.
Instead she sat up, late into the night, on the front porch, wrapped in a blanket.
Sitting on the steps, she listened to the sounds of the night. The waves pounding the beach across the street. The voices of young kids racing down the back alley. The laughter of girls leaving a bar. A young couple murmuring, talking. Another couple arguing.
You said, she said.
You said, he said.
Sarah watched them walk past her, on their way to their car. They walked with space between them, their anger like a third person tagging along.
Boone and me, Sarah thought, ducking her head, closing her eyes, hating to be like the couple fighting.
She and Boone had always been more than that. Better.
Eyes closed, she could see him the day they first met. It’d been here in Capitola and he and two friends were in line at Pizza My Heart. She’d just come off the beach in nothing but a bikini and cropped T-shirt, having killed it in an aggressive beach volleyball game.
She was still sweating, and hot, her long hair in a messy ponytail high on her head, and she’d walked right past Boone, not seeing him at first, but then something—some energy—caught her attention and she stopped, looked behind her.
There were three men, but she saw only one.
Tall, lots of muscles, a gorgeous face, a golden tan.
She looked then at his friends. They both had muscles, too, that lean fit look that identified them as athletes.
She knew. She’d been an athlete.
She’d looked away, and then looked back, and Boone was staring at her, his gaze warm, intense.
He likes me, she thought. He likes what he sees.
She liked that, and she smiled, just a little, the corner of her lips lifting.
He’d liked that, too.
She’d lifted a brow, slightly mocking, and gave him a smile that was more challenge than anything else, and then turned around, giving him a view of her ass in its little red bikini bottom, and headed on home to the family beach house.
He caught up with her before she made it to the cottage’s front door.
He had to leave soon, he said. He had a game that night at Candlestick Park. Could she come? He’d put her on the pass list . . .
Sarah had laughed and tugged the rubber band from her hair, freeing it. Her hair tumbled down over her shoulders to the middle of her back. She pushed her hand through it, lifting it. “I don’t even know you,” she’d said.
“I’m Boone Walker. I play baseball for the Braves.”
“What position?”
“First base.”
Impressive. She liked first base. “Where are you from?”
“New Orleans.”
She liked his accent. Sounded hot, sexy. But then, he was pretty damn hot and sexy. “Do you put a different girl on the pass list every night?”
“Only ones who wear red bikini bottoms.”
She tugged her T-shirt lower, but it did nothing to conceal her bare, flat stomach. “You’re a flirt.”
“You’re beautiful.”
She’d held his gaze, wanting to see what was in his eyes, appreciating his intensity. He was smart. Successful. He’d also be impossible to keep. She’d gone to school with guys like this. Had dated guys like this.
“Come tonight,” he said.