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Back Confess to Me Save as PDF
Chapters (87)
  1. Cover
  2. Also by Sharon Doering
  3. Title Page
  4. Dedication
  5. Prologue
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. 15
  21. 16
  22. 17
  23. 18
  24. 19
  25. 20
  26. 21
  27. 22
  28. 23
  29. 24
  30. 25
  31. 26
  32. 27
  33. 28
  34. 29
  35. 30
  36. 31
  37. 32
  38. 33
  39. 34
  40. 35
  41. 36
  42. 37
  43. 38
  44. 39
  45. 40
  46. 41
  47. 42
  48. 43
  49. 44
  50. 45
  51. 46
  52. 47
  53. 48
  54. 49
  55. 50
  56. 51
  57. 52
  58. 53
  59. 54
  60. 55
  61. 56
  62. 57
  63. 58
  64. 59
  65. 60
  66. 61
  67. 62
  68. 63
  69. 64
  70. 65
  71. 66
  72. 67
  73. 68
  74. 69
  75. 70
  76. 71
  77. 72
  78. 73
  79. 74
  80. 75
  81. 76
  82. 77
  83. 78
  84. 79
  85. Author’s Note
  86. Acknowledgements
  87. About the Author

As harried as Trevor was with responsibility, back and forth with work and his mom’s house, as scarce as he’d been around here, he seemed younger, wilder. Even in sex. He was a bit rougher. Less inhibited. I liked the change.

That night in bed, as he parted me with his tongue, I closed my eyes and imagined Desiree’s slender body was my own, that Trevor was her boyfriend even though I’d never seen him. I imagined her breath catching, her fleshy breasts, and her canines peeking out as she let her mouth fall open. I imagined her boyfriend sticking his fingers inside her, her moan matching my own. Her boyfriend’s voice demanding, yet soaked in weakness and need.

His breath hot on my stomach, between my breasts, his voice gravelly, Trevor said, “What do I deserve?”

I was Desiree. Young, without regrets, fast-talking, utterly unselfconscious. I whispered exactly what he wanted to hear before he thrust into me.

8

8

I rolled off Trevor and said, “Hey, that reminds me. Have you seen the lunchbox I bought Emily?”

“What reminds you? Sex reminds you of a lunchbox?”

I smiled. “It’s pink. Little owls. Totally sounds like your penis.” I laughed. “I meant to ask you about her lunchbox before.”

“Haven’t seen it.” He stood and shuffle-walked to the bathroom, half closed the door behind him. Peeing, he added, “I’m extremely surprised you can’t find it.” My unpacking was a joke that hadn’t gotten old yet. I had been unpacking every day, but it was half-hearted and uncommitted. I unpacked the Q-tips and our first aid kit, but left them on the floor in the bathroom. I unpacked Em’s clothes, but left them in a laundry basket in her room. I was moving us into this house at a snail’s pace, one box a day.

I wasn’t sure if it was the idea of putting down roots—albeit temporary, shallow roots you can shake loose from the dirt without causing damage—in this town or if it was just this house. Moldy Mildred was borderline creepy.

Trevor flushed the toilet and walked back to the bed. His eyelids heavy, he slipped under the covers.

“I’m gonna run to Walmart for a new lunchbox,” I said.

“My car is low on gas,” he said, his eyes closed, his voice velvety with sleep.

“I’m taking the rental.” I’d rented an SUV a few days ago so we’d both have cars. I’d never needed a car in Chicago; my job and the kids’ schools were both near “L” train stops.

“I don’t know how I keep forgetting that,” he said quietly, half asleep.

I grabbed my jeans and black T-shirt off the floor, dressed, grabbed my phone, and crept downstairs to the kitchen. I was pretty sure the Walmart twenty minutes away in Yellow Valley was open twenty-four hours, but wanted to check.