Ex and the Single Girl Page 13

  “Hey,” I said, feeling the awkwardness I would have felt earlier if the situation had allowed it.

  He gave me a small smile. “Hey, kiddo.”

  Aside from a few more gray hairs in his dark beard and a marked sadness in his eyes, Bridge hadn’t changed much since the last time I saw him, the day I left for college. I felt my heart squeeze tight. I’d missed him. I hadn’t realized that before, although it made sense; he’d been like an uncle to me from the time I was twelve. He’d gotten me the job with Morris Babb. He’d fixed my pink bike when the tire went flat. But when he was gone, he was gone, and like all the other Miz Fallons, I’d given up on looking back. My eyes moistened, and I grabbed his hand.

  “I’m glad you happened along,” I said, handing him his cell phone. “I don’t know what we would have done ..

  He shook his head and gave a swift shrug.

  “Ain’t nothing, girl. Now, you go on in and see to Beauji.” He pulled on a grin. “And you give me a call when that baby’s born. If it’s a boy, I want it to be called Bridge. You tell her that, now.”

  I smiled. “I will.”

  He gave a half nod, said good-bye to Ian, and left. My emotional level was in the red zone. And I still had Ian to deal with. I inhaled and turned to him.

  “I’m going to go inside and see how she’s doing,” I said, motioning lamely over my shoulder toward the hospital. “Thank you for getting us here.”

  Ian gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Not at all. I just hope she’s okay.”

  I laughed feebly. The muscles in my arms were starting to shake. I was fifteen seconds away from either breaking out laughing or crying. The only thing I was sure of was that I didn’t want Ian to see either. “Well. I’m gonna go.”

  Ian nodded. “Congratulate her for me, would you?”

  “Sure,” I said. But I didn’t move. I thought about how comforting it had felt to be in his arms that one morning before everything fell to shit. There was little I wouldn’t have given to feel some of that comfort right then.

  Including my pride.

  “Stay with me.” I hadn’t realized I was even thinking the words until they were out. I swallowed, forcing myself to go on. The only thing more painful than looking like an idiot was the idea of watching him walk away. I was too weak to fight needing him. “My arms are shaking. I’m a mess. There’s a whole history with Bridge and Vera and I haven’t seen him in years and he’s probably the closest thing to a father I ever had and the whole thing with Beauji scared the hell out of me and I really need a friend right now.”

  He smiled. “I’d be happy to stay with you.”

  I exhaled. “Thank you.”

  “Not at all. I’m rather glad you asked, actually.” He paused, took a breath, and started again. “Look, these things don’t tend to happen quickly. Trust me, my sister has had three of the little beasts and they all took better than twenty-four hours to make their appearance. I’m going to have to move my car anyway, so why don’t I take you back to your place and you can...well...” He motioned toward my feet. “Your shoes appear to be covered in some sort of...bodily fluid.”

  I looked down.

  “Oh, God. Beauji’s water broke all over my shoes. I totally forgot. Ewwww.” I put one hand on Ian’s shoulder and used my feet to kick them off, then hooked my toes in each sock and peeled those off as well. We stood side by side, looking at the soppy lump baking on the concrete.

  I leaned in toward Ian. “I know they’re my shoes, and this is more a woman’s area, but I really don’t think I can touch them.”

  Ian gave me a horrified look as he realized what I was asking, then sighed and held up one finger for me to wait. He flipped open the back of the SUV, grabbed a garbage bag, and used it to pick them up and toss them into a nearby trash can.

  “Just for the record,” he said as he got in the car and shut the driver’s side door, “that was absolutely the most disgusting thing I have ever done for a woman.”

  “Thanks for waiting,” I hollered through my closed bedroom door, taking the towel off my head and tossing it on the bed. “I’ll be out in just a minute.”

  “No hurry,” Ian called from the living room. I grabbed a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and put my hair up in a clip. It wasn’t my hottest look, but considering that I’d started out the day with amniotic fluid on my feet, it was a step in the right direction.

  “I was thinking we might stop by Sue Ann’s Bakery to get some coffee and doughnuts or something. I’m starving,” I said as I walked out into the living room. Ian was standing by my kitchen counter, his head bent over the ring box Peter had left there. He stepped back when he saw me, flashed a smile, and grabbed his keys off the coffee table.

  “Ready to go?” he asked, motioning toward the door.

  I didn’t move. Ian fiddled with his keys, then raised his eyes to meet mine.

  “He proposed,” I said. “That’s what he was doing here. After no communication for four months, he drove down here from Boston and proposed.”

  Ian nodded. There was a short silence in which I tried to read his expression and failed. Brits and their stiff upper lips. Finally, he spoke.

  “It’s really none of my business.”

  “I said no.”

  Ian looked up. Scanning my interaction with Peter I realized that I hadn’t exactly said no, but I’d definitely implied it. And implications count, right? Ian’s eyes traveled to the ring box and back to me, proving that implications do count. And not always in my favor.

  “I haven’t seen him,” I said. “I plan on returning it to him when I do.”

  Ian was quiet for a minute, his eyes wandering around the apartment, avoiding mine.

  “Portia,” he said finally, still not looking at me. “I’m afraid I owe you an apology.”

  “No,” I said, moving a step closer. “You don’t. I was totally wrong and I feel horrible about what I said.”

  “It’s all right. I understand how you would have jumped to conclusions. I overreacted and I apologize for that.”

  “I’m sorry, too.”

  He nodded. He still wasn’t looking at me. I took another step closer and leaned my head into his line of vision. “What is it?” His eyes glanced up, then away. “It’s just that...the fact that I reacted...as I did...got me thinking…” He met my eye again. I had a crazy idea for a moment that he was going to kiss me.

  I was mistaken.

  “I think it would be best if we kept our friendship...just a friendship.”

  I bit my lip. “Oh.”

  He paused. “I’m going back to London as soon as I finish my book.”

  Ice ran down my spine as I digested this. He was fairly close to done, from what I knew. He could be leaving any day, then. He gave an uncomfortable shrug and gestured to me, his focus landing on the window past my shoulder.

  “And you’re going back to New York at the end of the summer. It’s just...bad timing.”

  If that’s all it was, you’d be looking me in the eye right now, I thought. But what was the point? There was no beating the Teflon. It was all-powerful.

  “Sure. You’re right. Okay.”

  He raised his eyes to mine. “I want you to understand. It’s not that I don’t...It’s not personal.”

  Rejection is always personal. “Of course not. I agree, actually. I mean, things are complicated for me right now.”

  “Yes,” he said slowly.

  I swooped some hair behind my ear. “So really, what would be the point, right?”

  “Right,” he said. I couldn’t read his expression. Sad? Relieved? A little of both? Neither? I didn’t know. I hoped my expression was as unreadable for him. Fair’s fair.

  He jingled his keys in his hand. “Well. I do hope that you’ll continue to come over in the afternoons. I rather enjoyed our time together, and I’d hate to lose it.” He paused and gave a small smile. “I’ve missed you.”

  I smiled back. “Missed you, too.”

  We each gave a sel
f-conscious laugh. The comfort I usually felt in his presence was replaced by a painful awkwardness.

  “Right, then,” he said, motioning toward the door. “Shall we?”

  I stepped in front of him and headed out the door, wondering if maybe Penis Teflon was actually a physical characteristic, something in the genetic makeup of Miz Fallons that we exude, like pheromones. It would certainly explain a lot.

  “Hit me.” I had sixteen showing. Ian had fourteen. It was a gamble.

  Ian flipped over the next card.

  Five of hearts.

  “Woo hoo!” I did a little shimmy as I sat Indian-style on the big block end tables we’d pushed together to create our mini-casino. Turns out Ian was right; the little beasts do take forever to make the scene. It was two in the afternoon, and still no baby. Davey and Beauji’s mom were in the room with her, and they came out with updates every so often. In the meantime, Ian and I played blackjack.

  “Not so fast,” Ian said, holding up his hand. “I still have to take my card.”

  I rolled my eyes. “You’re not going to get twenty-one.”

  He tapped the face-down card at the top of the deck. “How can you be so sure?”

  “What are the odds?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know, but I have a chance.”

  “You have no chance,” I said.

  “We’ll see.” He flipped the top card onto the table, keeping his eyes on me. I glanced down, then looked back up at him, my mouth open.

  “You’re a cheater,” I said as he gathered the cards up, leaving the seven of clubs he’d just picked off the deck for last.

  “I most certainly am not,” he said, “and I resent the accusation. No matter. I win. Push goes to the dealer.”

  “Since when?”

  He grinned. “Dealer makes the rules.”

  I sighed. “Fine. A bet’s a bet. What do you want?”

  He shuffled the cards between denim knees, his work boots tapping on the floor for a second while he thought. “Tell me the whole story about you and Peter.”

  “The whole story? Why do you want to know?”

  “I have to admit, I’m curious.” He set the deck of cards neatly between us. “It’s the writer in me.”

  Sure. The writer.

  “Okay,” I said, standing up. “But it’s a long story. Make yourself comfortable. I’m gonna get us some coffee.”

  “You do realize that this whole idea of Penis Teflon is patently absurd, don’t you?” Ian leaned over me on the lumpy hospital couch and tossed his empty coffee cup into the garbage. It had taken us three cups and ninety minutes to get from the day Peter and I met three years before to the moments right before Ian came to pick me up for our date.

  I shook my head. “No, I’m totally serious. I think it might be a chemical thing, like pheromones...”

  Ian huffed. “Look, the man abandoned you with a note. Scribbled in the front page of his own novel, which tells me that he’s completely self-obsessed, which in turn suggests that this sudden change of heart likely has more to do with him than it does with you.”

  “Oh, gee, thanks.”

  He let his head fallback against the couch. “Sod it. I should have known better.”

  I folded my arms over my stomach. “Excuse me?”

  He lifted his head. “What I’m trying to say is that a person who is that self-obsessed is not likely to suddenly become otherwise. I was not making any commentary at all on whether or not you might be worthy of the change.”

  “I didn’t say that you did.” But, of course, that was the way I’d taken it. Time to get the subject back on track. “So, you don’t think people can change?”

  “I believe they can, yes. I don’t believe they often do. But I think the real question is, is that a risk you really want to take?”

  His brown eyes dug into mine, pushing for an answer. My mouth was open, but I had none. It was then that I heard a familiar voice calling my name. I looked up and saw Beauji’s dad, Beau Sr., dumping some luggage on the floor and rushing over to me. His face was as red as the fringe of hair that ran around the back of his head.

  “Portia,” he said, pulling me into his arms for a hug. “Good to see you. Where’s my baby girl?”

  “She’s still in labor, far as we know.”

  “She’s okay, though? Baby’s okay?”

  I smiled. “Yes, both fine so far. We're just waiting for the final showdown.”

  He grinned. “I wasn’t going to go to that conference, but Beauji’s mama told me it’d be fine, babies never come on time. Shows you what women know.” He gave me a nudge and a wink. “I caught the first flight out of Atlanta and damn near killed myself getting here. Can’t miss my first day of being a grandpa, can I?”

  “No,” I said with a laugh. “Absolutely not.”

  He looked at Ian and held out his hand. “Beau Miles.”

  Ian shook it. “Ian Beckett. I’m a friend of Portia’s.”

  Beau gave a gasp of recognition. “You’re that fella writes those spy novels, aren’t you? I heard you’d be in town this summer.”

  Ian nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, you and Portia are coming by for dinner before the summer’s out, and I won’t take no for an answer. It’s not often a guy gets to show off his grandbaby to a famous author.”

  Ian glanced at me, then smiled and nodded at Beau Sr. “I’d be honored, Mr. Miles. Thank you.”

  “Oh, Mr. Miles, nothing. You’re a friend of Portia’s. You’ll call me Beau.”

  Beau Sr. winked at me and I felt a blush creeping up my neck, but was saved by the sound of squeaky sneakers on the linoleum. We all turned to see Davey, red-faced and grinning, coming up behind us.

  “It’s a boy.”

  Ian and I waited an hour for Beauji and the baby to get settled in her room. She looked beautiful, if a little tired. Her face glowed. The baby was a tiny cocoon of blankets sleeping in a clear plastic bassinet next to her bed. Beau Sr. stood on one side with his arm around Beauji’s mom, Wendy. Davey sat with one hip on the bed next to Beauji, cooing at his sleeping son.

  Ian squeezed my hand and whispered, “Congratulate Beauji for me. I’ll be in the waiting room.”

  As the door closed behind him, Beauji held her hand out to me.

  “Come see my baby, Portia,” she said. Davey stood up and moved to the side to make room for me. I walked over, took her hand, and looked. “Isn’t he gorgeous?”

  I peeked at the wrinkled, scrunched-up pink face poking out from the blanket cocoon and the light blue baby cap. He resembled a hairless pink pug dog, but she was right. He was beautiful.

  “I am so proud of you, baby.” Beau Sr. stepped over and planted a kiss on Beauji’s head. There were tears in his eyes. He grabbed her other hand and pulled it to his lips. “My baby had a baby.”

  Davey’s arm came up around my shoulders. “Don’t you start crying, too,” he said, knocking his head lightly against mine. I swiped at my face.

  “Too late,” I said, trying to smile despite the fact that I hated the reason I was crying. I leaned over and gave Beauji a kiss on the cheek.

  “You get some rest. I’ll come back tomorrow to visit with you and...” I blinked and laughed. “Hey, what’d you name him, anyway?”

  Beauji looked up at her father and grinned. “Miles. Miles David Chapman.”

  The first thing I noticed when I opened the door to my apartment was the smell. Something was cooking. Chicken?

  My eyes adjusted to the dimness. The place was littered with candles. Something was all over the floor and the couch and the furniture.

  Rose petals?

  Oh, God.

  “You’re home!” Peter, wearing an apron, popped up in the kitchenette where he’d been rummaging in the cupboards below the counter. “Did Beauji have the baby?”

  He was acting like nothing was wrong, like he didn’t propose only to be ignored and avoided for a week. He’d been hanging with the Mizzes for too long.


  “Yeah. Boy. Miles David.”

  Peter smiled. “Great. I figured you'd be tired after being at the hospital all day—Davey called your mom to tell her—so I...” He motioned behind him, then gave me a sheepish look. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  I sighed. I was hungry, and whatever he was cooking smelled good.

  “I should mind,” I said, plopping myself down on the couch. “But I’m too tired.”

  “Glass of wine?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”

  Peter poured us each a glass of chilled chardonnay and sat down next to me. I took a sip and lolled my head back on the couch. “What are you doing, Peter?”

  He grinned. “Trying to win you back.”

  “I’m not a carnival goldfish.”

  “I know that.” He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he looked into his wineglass. “And I know it might be hopeless. But I have to try or I will know I never tried.”

  He brought his eyes up to meet mine. I felt it, a small flicker of something that once was. I took a sip of wine to dampen it.

  “So, what’s cooking?” I asked.

  “Vera’s lemon chicken,” he said.

  I eyed him suspiciously. “My favorite.”

  He smiled. “I know.”

  “The Mizzes have been schooling you, have they?”

  He shrugged. “I like them.”

  “And you’re all conspiring against me?”

  His smile faded. “Not against you. We all want you to be happy.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him but held on to a small smile. “Well, your timing is great. I’m weak and tired. You may stay for dinner, but only because you cooked it, and then you leave.” He raised his glass and clinked it to mine. “Deal.”

  Any idiot could have seen it coming; any idiot except me, that is. But between the wine, the exhaustion, and the residual comfort from times gone by, I was taken completely by surprise when, within an hour of finishing the meal, I found myself making out with Peter frat-party style on my couch.

  “Wait,” I said, pushing him away as his hand went under my shirt. I popped up off the couch and held out my hands, channeling Diana Ross. “Wait.”