Ex and the Single Girl (17 page)

He smiled that little sincere smile, the smile that refused to be distracted by shiny conversational objects.

I
’
m.
afraid
every man I care about is going to leave me.

He
was supposed to be laughing at me, or annoyed with me, or something aside from unbearably sincere.

I
’
m afraid.

But I couldn
’
t say any of that. Instead, I said, “
She really is crazy, you know.”

Ian grinned. “
I gathered.”

There was another brief silence. Ju
st as Ian opened his mouth to speak again, the kitchen door swung into the room and Beauji reappeared.

“
Everything settled?”

I pulled on a forced smile. “
Yes.”

“
Good.”
She grinned. If she wasn
’
t supporting the life of an innocent party, I would have strang
led her right there. She looked up at Ian. “
I
’
m glad we had this talk. Any chance you could give us a lift back into town?”

Ian smiled, stepped around her, and pushed the kitchen door open, holding it for both of us. I tried not to look at him, but I did n
otice his hand move instinctively toward the small of my back as I passed, and I also noticed him jerking it away before he touched me. On the ride back to town, I mentally planned a trip to Babies
’
R Us, where I intended to buy Beauji a slew of the noisi
e
st damn baby toys ever made.

Chapter Six

“
Sit down, baby.”

I had my hand on the doorknob, ready to go inside for Sunday dinner, when I heard Mags
’
s voice. I turned to see her sitting on the porch swing, hands clasped in her lap. I glanced inside at the a
pparently empty house, then looked back at Mags.

“
Where are Vera and Bev?”

“
At a movie.”
In the muted glow of seven o
’
clock, Mags looked young. Vibrant. Her makeup flawless, her dress perfectly smooth, every strand of her hair in place. It was hard to beli
eve that the last time I
’
d seen her, she
’
d been covered in mud and cow pies.

She patted the space next to her. “
We need to talk.”

I sat down. There were two sweating glasses of gin and tonic sitting on the coffee table in front of us. I reached for mine. S
he reached for hers. We both drank.

Silence.

“
Well?”
I said after a minute. “
Are you going to tell me what
’
s going on or what?”

Mags sighed and stared down the street, but didn
’
t say anything.

“
Mags?”
I said. “
You
’
re scaring me. I
’
m worried about you. Vera
won
’
t tell me much, and Bev won
’
t tell me anything. I just want to know that you
’
re okay. That
’
s all.”

Mags smiled and patted my hand. “
I
’
m gonna go refresh my drink.”
She gave a furtive glance at my glass, which was almost full, but Southern women draw c
omfort from hospitality, so I took a large gulp and handed it to her.

“
Thanks.”

She smiled and headed inside with our glasses. I stared down the street and remembered riding my first bike down that bumpy sidewalk when I was six, the Mizzes cheering me on f
rom the porch. I remembered looking back at them and waving, not seeing that I was headed straight toward the fire hydrant until it was too late. I knocked into it and got a good scratch on my leg. I played up the crying as the Mizzes played up the rescue,
passing me between them as they carried me back to the house until I began to giggle with each pass.

Mags returned, handed me my drink, and sat down. More silence. A car engine started a block down. A baby cried in the house across the street. Mags sighed.

“
I
’
m not sure where to start.”

“
Why don
’
t you start with Jack?”
I said. My voice cracked on his name. I took another drink. “
You could tell me what that
’
s all about.”

Mags stared at her bright red fingernails. “
No, I don
’
t think I can start there.”

I hea
ved a sigh. “
Fine. Start with the animals. What possessed you to break into Carl Raimi
’
s farm and set his cows free?”

Mags put her drink down and stood up. “
I can
’
t talk to you if you
’
re going to be angry.”

“
Well, then, we
’
ve got a problem because you can
’
t expect me to be anything else if you won
’
t talk to me.”

She glanced at me and walked over to the porch railing, her arms crossed over her abdomen as she stared out at the fire hydrant where I
’
d fallen all those ages ago.

“
It
’
s just a thing, really.”

“
A t
hing.”
I paused, gave her the opportunity to speak. She didn
’
t take it. Her back was still to me. “
What kind of thing?”

“
A thing.”
She
waved
her arm around in the air, her fingers making delicate circles. “
I
’
ve been...thinking. A lot. About things. I
’
ve be
en...”
She sighed. “
I
’
ve been sad.”

My eyes widened. Sad?
Mags
had been
sad}

“
That
’
s impossible,”
I said. Two gin and tonics and my thoughts were going straight to my lips. I took another sip. In for a penny, in for a pound.

“
Well, it
’
s the truth. I
’
ve bee
n sad,”
Mags said. More silence. “
Is that it?”
I said. I wondered how much energy I had left for conversations like this. It was just so much work trying to understand her. “
That
’
s how you explain all of this? The finding me a Flyer, the mysterious mornin
g
activities, the letting farm animals loose through the streets of Truly? It
’
s because you
’
re sad?”

Mags kept her eyes on the fire hydrant. “
There comes a time in a woman
’
s life when she has to look at herself and fix the things that need
fixin'
.”

I tried
to process that and failed. “
I don
’
t understand.”

“
I know, I know.”
She turned around to face me, leaning against the railing. “
So, tell me what happened with you and Peter.”

I blinked. “
That
’
s it? Were done talking about you and your sad thing?”

“
Yes,
we'
re
done.”
She sat down in the wicker chair next to the porch swing and leaned forward. “
You and Peter were together for a while.”

“
Two years.”

“
So what happened?”

“
Why do you want to know about Peter?”

“
Because I do.”

“
Why?”

“
Because I do.”

Well, that l
ine of questioning was obviously going nowhere. I shrugged.
What the hell?

“
We were perfectly happy until one day I came home and found all his stuff gone.”

She sipped her drink. “
Were you happy?
Really
happy? I mean, people who are happy don
’
t just up and
leave, right?”

“
I guess not,”
I said. It made sense, but I
’
d put a lot of hard work into not delving into what happened with me and Peter, and I liked it that way.

“
It just seems to me,”
Mags went on, “
that people who really love each other find a way to
work it out, no matter what.”
There was an intensity in her voice that made me unsure if we were actually talking about me. She turned her head to look at me. “
Did you love him?”

I leaned back. “
I don
’
t know. Maybe. I think I did.”
I squelched a burp. “
I w
as sad when he was gone.”

She nodded. I took another drink. It was one of the first times in my life Mags had shown a genuine interest in how I felt, and whether it was about me or not, I sopped up the attention like a dry sponge.

“
To be honest, there were
times when I wished he would leave, but once he was gone, I wanted him back. And I don
’
t know why. Maybe because it was love. Maybe because I thought he was my last chance.”

“
Your last chance? At what?”

“
I don
’
t know, Mags. Marriage. Children. A man who s
ticks.”

Mags looked out at some indistinct point down the street and took a sip of her drink. “
Do you think that would make you happy? A man who sticks?”

“
Does it matter? Men don
’
t stick to Miz Fallons, do they?”
Our eyes locked. I was right. We weren
’
t ta
lking about me. But before I could focus my gin-scattered thoughts enough to figure out exactly what we were talking about, she changed the subject.

“
I
’
m sorry, darlin
’,”
she said, touching the corners of her eyes. “
I was wrong to get you involved with tha
t Flyer. I don
’
t think it
’
s done you any good at all.”

I gaped at her. “
Did you just apologize to me?”

“
Don
’
t get me wrong. He
’
s a very attractive man. But I think what you need is
—”

I held up my hand. “
Stop. Stop, stop, stop. I
’
m thirty years old. It
’
s ti
me for you to stop telling me what I need.”

She sat back and stared at the drink she held in her lap, and as I watched her I was amazed, not for the first time, at what a mystery my own mother was to me. I
’
ve struck up conversations with strangers on plane
s who made more sense to me than this woman.

And yet, I loved her. I loved her and I hated seeing her sad and if whatever she was doing was going to take that sadness away, then I was going to have to just shut up and accept it.

I reached over and put my h
and on hers. She blinked in surprise and looked at me.

“
Mags, are you okay?”

“
Oh, I
’
ll be fine,”
she said, throwing a smile my way. “
Really, you
’
re making a bigger deal out of this than it needs to be
—”

“
No,”
I interrupted. “
I mean, are you
okay}
This...th
ing you
’
re going through. It
’
s not...medical, or anything? You
’
re not going to die on me, right?”