Ex and the Single Girl Page 14

  Peter leaned back and put his arm over his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

  “No, you’re not,” I said. “This is exactly what you wanted.” He pulled his arm down and sat forward. “That’s not true.

  I mean, well...yeah, it’s true. But how you feel matters more to me. I don’t want to pressure you.”

  “Oh, really?” I threw up my arms, gesturing around the room. “So what’s this? Breaking into my apartment, covering it with candles and rose petals, cooking me dinner, plying me with wine? What is that if not pressure?”

  “Technically, I didn’t break in. Mags gave me a key.”

  I ground my teeth. “You’re not doing yourself any favors by bringing Mags into this, Peter.”

  Peter ran his hands down his thighs and stood up. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I ambushed you. That was totally unfair.”

  “Don’t sell me this crap about fair and unfair,” I said. “It’s not about that. It’s about you. What’s with you, Peter? Who are you, Peter? Because it’s for damn sure that in the two years we were living together, you never once called Aunt Vera to get the recipe for my favorite chicken.”

  “Maybe I’ve changed,” he said quietly.

  “Maybe,” I said. We stood in a checkmate for a minute, then Peter stepped closer. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them, his mouth was just an inch from mine. I could feel the heat from his body drawing me in closer, until we were touching. His hand settled on my hip. His lips brushed mine.

  And we were on the couch again.

  I deserve this, I thought as his hands cupped my breasts, his fingers running lightly over the nipples and making a surge run through me. I deserve to be touched and held and loved. I deserve a goddamn orgasm.

  “Stop,” I said, pushing him back again. “Stop. I can’t think. I can't...”

  He reached up and touched my face. “Don’t think. Don’t worry. We’ll go only as far as you want to, and if you decide tomorrow that it was all a mistake and you want no part of me, I’ll accept that.” He leaned into me and nibbled on my collarbone. That’s the thing about exes. They know all your weak spots.

  I let out a breath and tried to will my heart rate to slow down. “I don’t have anything,” I said. “I mean, protection.”

  He smiled, his hands working the button on my jeans, slowly unzipping them. “There are some things for which you don’t need protection.” He dipped into my collarbone again, and did something with his tongue that told me exactly what he was thinking.

  “But what about you?” I gasped.

  He kissed a trail down my neck, over my breasts. “Don’t worry about me.”

  I deserve this, I thought. He’ll go away afterward if I tell him. He said so. I deserve this.

  As he slipped my panties off and lowered his face between my legs, I closed my eyes.

  And thought of someone else.

  Chapter Nine

  “My feelings...they are so different,” Elizabeth said, her hands tucked behind her as she walked with Darcy. A smile tipped the corners of her mouth. “In fact, they are quite the opposite.”

  I popped a cigarette into my mouth, squinting my left eye as a trail of smoke assaulted it, and reached for the remote. I paused the video on Darcy’s understated expression of joy and relief as he realized that Elizabeth finally loved him back. I took a long drag on the cigarette, then put it out in the ashtray, where it joined the stubby remainders of six of its little friends. I flicked my finger over the touch pad on my laptop, banishing the annoying bouncing-ball screen saver to virtual purgatory. My dissertation was exactly as I’d left it in February, forty pages of single-spaced crap ending with a hanging sentence I’d left unfinished. The frequent borrowing of Austen’s plotlines to fuel modern literature points…

  I remembered having the thought, remembered getting a phone call in the middle of it, going back to my laptop, and realizing I’d forgotten where I was headed, then shutting the computer down, figuring I’d get to it the next day. The next day, however, had been Valentine’s Day, the day Peter left, and I hadn’t touched the dissertation since.

  I refilled my wineglass from the half-empty bottle of chardonnay sitting on the coffee table. I squinted at the time on the VCR.

  11:15.

  In the morning.

  I sighed and reached for my cigarettes. I’d smoked briefly during my sophomore year at Georgia State, but gave it up before the end of the spring semester. I hated the panic I’d felt when the pack was almost done. I figured it was better to live without them than to deal with the constant stress of wondering when I’d get my next fix. And then there was the 'whole cancer thing to boot.

  After Peter left the night before, after I’d opened my eyes wanting to see one face and being presented with another, I’d gone out and gotten three packs, a glass ashtray, four lighters, and two bottles of wine. It may not be ideal to crave nicotine, but at least in that case I’d know exactly what I wanted and exactly how to get it, which wasn’t happening in any other area of my life.

  I blazed up the lighter, watched the end of the cigarette flare up and glow orange. I inhaled. Ah.

  I had opened the windows to clear out some of the smoke, but the shades were drawn, muting the daylight and giving the room an orange glow. I picked up the remote and hit REWIND, sending Darcy and Elizabeth back to mid-walk. I hit PLAY. Darcy turned to Elizabeth, his face tortured with love and angst.

  “You are too generous a person to trifle with me. Tell me, if your feelings are the same as they were last April, I will never say another word on the subject. My feelings are unchanged.”

  My chest tightened at Darcy’s anguished face. At his obvious love. At his blatant intention to stick.

  Forever.

  I picked up the remote and hit the power button, shutting off the television. That was enough of the sexy Brit.

  I closed my eyes and leaned back against the couch, exhaling. The truth was, I couldn’t care less about Austen or the dissertation. I’d been watching six hours of one sexy Brit because all I could think about was another sexy Brit, the one I’d given myself to last night when my eyes were closed. The one who’d given me a spectacular orgasm and didn’t even know he’d done it.

  I sat up and tried to shrug the tension out of my shoulders. Peter’s shift would be ending at noon, when Mags returned from whatever it was she was doing in the mornings. Although he hadn’t tried to make plans when I ushered him out the door the night before, I knew he’d probably be coming by. I also knew I wasn’t ready to make any decisions about Peter. Maybe he had changed, maybe he hadn’t. I wasn’t ready to figure all that out now.

  I looked over at my kitchen counter, where the ring box remained, untouched since Peter had set it there. I’d been eating and cleaning around it, but I knew it wouldn’t wait there forever.

  I stood up, took one last drag on the cigarette, and stubbed it out. The one thing I wanted more than anything was to get some fresh air. To walk.

  To pound some nails into the east wall of Morris and Trudy Babb’s barn.

  Why not? I thought as my heart raced. He said he’d missed me. He said he wanted me to keep coming by.

  And he said he wanted to just be friends.

  My eyes were drawn once again, almost magnetically, to the ring box. I decided a friend was exactly what I needed and went into my room to find a fresh towel.

  “Ian?” I called as I stepped into the barn, holding my hand over my eyes and squinting as my vision adjusted from the bright outdoors to the dim barn where someone was moving wood around.

  “Portia, girl, that you?” Bridge stood up straight and wiped his arm against his forehead.

  “Yeah. I just stopped by to help Ian with the restoration. What are you doing here?”

  Bridge grinned, his white teeth shining behind the sawdust- covered moustache and beard. “Pretty much the same. Didn’t feel right to let him do all the work on it, considering I’m the caretaker of the property.” He sat down on the pile of wood and patted
the spot next to him. “Come sit with me for a minute. I was just about to take a break.”

  I sat next to him, facing the east wall. Most of the lower supports were in place, and some scaffolding had been set up at the second level.

  “I sure wish Trudy could see this,” he said after taking a long swig of his water. “I think she’d be mighty pleased.”

  “Yeah.” I kicked my legs out and let them fall back against the wood. “You think she’ll ever come back?”

  Bridge sighed. “I like to think maybe. Morris Jr.’s in Fargo and Brenda’s in Wichita. She mostly summers with them and winters in Sarasota with her sister.” He shook his head. “She ain’t been back to this place since...oh, must have been the August after Morris passed. She loves the place, all right, but it’s just hard for her to visit, you know. Memories can be hard on people.”

  I stole a glance at Bridge and gave a small smile. “I know.” He nudged me slightly with his shoulder. I nudged back. He took off his gloves, leaned over, and pulled a bag of carrots out of a cooler, and we munched in silence for a minute.

  “Where’s Ian?” I asked after practicing my inflection in my mind so I wouldn’t sound like I cared too much. “Is he writing?” Bridge shook his head. “No. He had some business to do with Carl Raimi. Should be back before too long.”

  “Carl Raimi?” The words caught in my throat as I remembered how close Ian and Carl had come to duking it out in the streets of Truly. “What kind of business?”

  Bridge raised one eyebrow at me. “The kind of business that’s his business to tell.” He shook his head. “You’re just as nosy as ever, aren’t you?”

  I feigned offense. “You’re confusing me with Mags and Vera.” I saw something in his eyes tighten when I said Vera’s name, but he recovered quickly. I might not even have noticed it if I didn’t know Bridge so well.

  “Portia, don’t you go fooling yourself,” he said quietly. “You’re a Miz Fallon, just like the rest of ’em. And someday you might just realize that ain’t necessarily a bad thing.”

  I opened my mouth to say something, then closed it. I didn’t want to extend a conversation that danced around Vera if it was going to make Bridge sad.

  “It’s good to see you again, Bridge,” I said finally. “Really good.”

  He reached over and ruffled my hair. “You too, kiddo.”

  “Portia?” A jolt ran through me at the sound of Ian’s voice, and I turned my head to see him entering the barn. My face started to heat up and my heart pounded so fiercely I thought sure they’d both see it right through my T-shirt.

  It wasn’t him last night. It was Peter. Get a grip, Portia. “Hey,” I said, hopping down off my perch. “We were just talking about you.”

  Ian smiled, tossing his jacket on the spot where I’d been sitting. “Nothing bad, I hope.”

  “No,” I said. “How’s Raimi?”

  Ian glanced at Bridge, then back at me.

  “Seems to be well.” He cleared his throat. “He’s dropping the charges against your mother.”

  “Really?” I crossed my arms and eyed him suspiciously. “I wonder why.”

  Ian shrugged. “I don’t know. I, uh, bumped into him in the, uh, the store...”

  “The Piggly Wiggly,” Bridge offered. I glanced at him and he looked away. Men sticking together.

  “Yes, the Piggly Wiggly. I asked after his cows, and we got to talking and...he told me he’s dropping the charges.” He motioned toward the scaffolding. “Good job with the scaffolding, Bridge.”

  I thought about pushing the subject, delving into his obvious lie, but I didn’t want to put Bridge through that. The poor guy was still in love with a Miz Fallon. He’d been through enough. Bridge cleared his throat. “Thanks. It’s a specialty.”

  Ian smiled at him. “I’d have been happy to help if you’d waited for me.”

  “I waited ’bout as long as I had the patience to wait,”

  Bridge said, lowering himself off the pile of wood. “Portia’ll tell you, I’m not long on patience.”

  Ian smiled and picked up a plank of wood. “Well, then, let’s get down to work, shall we?” He looked at me and nodded toward the pegs on the back wall, where a tool belt was hanging. “I suppose you should suit up, Portia.” He paused and looked at me. “Assuming you’re here to work?”

  I smiled. “Why else would I be here?”

  “All right. I’m done. My arm is going to fall off if I hammer one more nail.” I pivoted my arm around in a circle and sat down, swinging my legs over the side of the scaffolding and folding my arms over the metal support pole. Warm, fading daylight filtered through the wide opening in the south wall. Bridge had left an hour before, and Ian and I had worked at a furious pace since, just now starting to slow down.

  Ian put a plank of wood on the pile and looked up at me, his eyes tight on mine.

  “She is fair,” he said softly, “and, fairer than that word, of wondrous virtues...Her name is Portia...”

  I stared at him for a moment, speechless. “What?”

  He blinked, and seemed to snap back from wherever he’d been. “Merchant of Venice”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I know.”

  We locked eyes in silence for a long moment, and then he smiled. “I’ve been trying to remember that quote for a while. I kept meaning to look it up. Kept forgetting. But it hit me when I looked at you just now.” He laughed and lowered his eyes to his hands. “It just came back to me.”

  There was something twisting in my chest at the way he looked standing there, staring at his hands. A little confused. A lot vulnerable. I wanted more than anything to hop off that scaffold and wrap myself around him, but as we were mere days away from the let’s-just-be-friends bit, I opted for a sympathy subject change.

  “You know,” I said, “someday Marlowe’s gonna get proper credit for that.”

  Ian laughed and leaned his rear end against the pile of wood. “Oh, you’re still on about Marlowe, are you?”

  “Have you not read Dr. Faustus? Isn’t it obvious the same author wrote the plays attributed to Shakespeare?”

  “Frankly, no.” He grinned. “Not to me, nor to five hundred years’ worth of scholars, I might add.”

  I huffed. “You don’t think it’s a coincidence that an illiterate farmer started writing works of genius in 1593, the very year that Marlowe supposedly died?”

  He smiled. “Coincidence is all well and good. You have no proof.”

  “I’ll get it.”

  “How?”

  I gave him a playful stare through narrowed eyelids. “I’ll go to England and find it. And then I’ll get a big plate of crow and serve it up for you nice and hot.”

  His grin faded a touch, replaced by a softer, more thoughtful smile. “I’ll look forward to that.”

  This followed by intense eye contact hurtling through an electric silence. I had to say, based on appearances, we were both sucking pretty bad at this just-friends thing.

  “Beau Sr. invited us to dinner next Friday,” I said.

  Ian’s eyebrows knit for a second, and then he let loose with a wry smile. “Oh, he settled on Friday, did he?”

  “Yeah, and I was thinking, since he invited us together, kinda…”

  Ian smiled. “What time should I pick you up?”

  “Seven.” I felt my face flush. Gah. “I hope you don’t mind. It wouldn’t be like a date-date, or anything. It’s strictly friend- date material.”

  “A friend-date,” he said, one hand clamping to the scaffolding as he pulled himself up, his head popping up next to me. “I suppose I could clear my schedule for something of that nature.”

  I scooted to the side to make room for him as he sat down.

  “On one condition,” he said as he swung his legs over the side and settled next to me.

  “Oh?” I gave him a sideways look, trying not to betray the fact that my heart was skipping like Shirley Temple on amphetamines. “And what would that be?”

  “That you
tell me what’s on your mind.” His expression was more serious. I looked down at my swinging feet.

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “Oh, come on. You’ve been preoccupied all afternoon. I didn’t want to say anything while Bridge was here, but I am now willing to officially offer you a friend-date for your thoughts.” He raised one eyebrow on friend-date. Skippity skip skip skip.

  “Isn’t it typically a penny?”

  He grinned. “I’m a generous man.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” I said, thinking of the mystery meeting with Carl Raimi. “But really, nothing’s going on.”

  He looked away from me and stared at a point on the opposite wall. “Is it your ex?”

  “What? Peter?” I watched him for signs of jealousy. I was about to count not meeting my eye as one, but a moment later he turned to me and did just that.

  “Yes. Peter.”

  This time, I looked away. “He was at the apartment waiting for me last night when I got back from the hospital. He covered the place with rose petals. Set up candles. Poured me some wine. He got the recipe for my favorite chicken from Vera and had it ready for me.”

  There was a short silence. “Do you believe he’s changed?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know. Maybe. He’s certainly acting different.”

  A longer silence. Ian sighed. “Well, I hope he turns out to be the person you want him to be.”

  You mean you'? I looked at Ian as the thought flew through my mind, but said nothing. He gave my knee a brief pat and pulled himself up to a standing position on the scaffolding, then held out his hand to help me up.

  “It’s getting dark,” he said. “Will you let me drive you home?”

  I took his hand and pulled myself up, letting go as soon as I could. “Sure. Thanks.”

  Ian walked me up to my apartment this time and poked his head in to make sure all was well before taking off again. I walked over to the TV, hit the power button, and pressed PLAY, reaching for my cigarettes with my other hand.

  “My feelings are so...different,” Elizabeth said as I lit my cigarette. “In fact, they are quite the opposite.”