I figured. Being trusted to keep small children safe in a pool didn’t mix well with your mugshot in the crime section of the local news.

My best chance was bluntness. “I bailed her out last night and drove her home, but she left her jacket in my car. Do you have her number?”

“Yeah, sure.” I’d assumed he wouldn’t give it to me, so I had to scramble and grab a crayon and notebook from Emily’s room.

I thanked him and typed a message to Desiree.

-I saw him standing by his car on my drive home. Is he OK? And please don’t tell him my name.

I hit send and tossed my phone on my bed. Peeled off my sweaty clothes, walked naked to the bathroom, and turned the shower hot.

While I waited for hot water, I opened Sawyer’s drawer below the sink. His shaver. His toothpaste. His deodorant. Artic Plunge. I opened it and inhaled.

I was a kid again, yearning for closeness. Stealing Shane’s pillow so I could bury my nose in its slick, unwashed softness and inhale the scent of his dirty hair. Stealing Holly’s jacket so I could smell her perfume.

I did the same with Trevor’s stuff. I’d go into the bedroom after he’d left for work. His cologne and hairspray smells twirling under the fan, I’d stand there, breathing him in.

I never did it with Emily because she was always right there, touching me, never giving me space. I smelled Emily’s stuff, of course, her sweaty socks or urine-tainted underwear, but that was only when I’d found an item on the floor and I needed to decide whether to drop it in her laundry basket or back in her drawer.

I capped Sawyer’s deodorant and returned it to the drawer. I showered, wondering if, deep down, Sawyer hated me just a little.

Sawyer and I, we played family. I loved him, but there was nothing bonding him to me, no hilarious shared joke that had knocked us off our chairs, left us breathless on the ground. No grumpy weekend of camping in the rain we could recall. We had shared space two or three days a week since he was nine years old—accidental roommates—but still we didn’t have history.