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Chapter Eight

Claire frowned at the mess she had made on her bed. There were her dark blue jeans and the light blue pair, her v-neck sweater, feaux leather jacket, and the striped shirt she'd bought because it'd been on sale but she'd only ever worn it once. She wanted to look casual but also effortlessly stylish. The best clothes she had were the black dress and heels that she wore to the funeral, but that was too fancy. There was the sweater, but what if it was warm in the bar?

Grumbling, she went to the bathroom and decided to just finish with her makeup and hair. It was 7:53, which mean that Greg would be here in approximately seven minutes. And she still hadn't decided what to wear. She'd asked her mom but hadn't really listened. How can you trust your mom to pick out what you should wear on a night out with your ex? Sorry, Joy. It just wasn't going to happen.

She finally picked out the sweater, the dark jeans, and her ankle boots. It was one of those shorter sweaters, but the waist of her jeans was high. It was a flattering cut on her but also simple enough that Greg wouldn't think she'd been obsessing about her outfit for over an hour now. Even though she had done that. And it was more than one hour.

It hadn't even been just the clothes that had given her so much trouble, either. It had been what she would wear underneath that had also bothered her. She had a nice bra that she'd worn under her dress, but other than that, it was just plain cotton. All very practical but also all very bland.

There'd been that little thought in the back of her head, teasing her ever since he had left. What if he made a move? What if she made a move? What would she do? What would he do? She didn't think it would happen, but she'd always had this overactive imagination that spun out wild fantasies with just the slightest nudge in the wild fantasy direction.

But nope. It was just her plain cotton bra and her plain cotton underwear. That was that. And it wasn't going to matter, either way. She had made sure that they at least matched, though.

They were both grown adults who were just catching up with friends over drinks.

She heard Lady barking, which could only mean one thing. Greg was here. Claire made one last round with the mascara, picked up her purse and jacket, took a deep breath, and walked into the living room.

Greg was standing there, bundled up in his old jacket. He was petting Lady as he talked with her mom, his eyes watching whatever her dad had on the TV. He'd cleaned up since dinner. His hair no longer pointed in all different directions, and his jeans didn't look as ratty. They were worn, but they matched well with his boots.

He smiled at her when she walked in, and her stomach lurched. It felt like it was twisting, swirling around and making it hard to breathe. It was just too reminiscent a scene of when he'd always come to pick her up.

Claire managed a smile. "Hey."

"Hey. Ready to go?"

"Yeah." She zipped up her coat, hugged her mom goodbye, and followed Greg out to his car.

He held the passenger door open for her – a habit of his – and she got in. It was clean, impeccably so. He'd always been that way with vehicles. His would be so clean it almost looked new, and he'd complain about how messy hers was. It smelled like him, too. Vanilla bean lip balm, Old Spice, and winter air.

The car sank under his weight when he got in. He turned the radio down before pulling out of the driveway, his arm behind the back of her seat and his neck craned back. He smiled at her again when he turned around, those gleaming white, pointed teeth doing weird things to her insides.