Ex and the Single Girl (28 page)

“
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 materi
al.”

“
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 w
hat
’
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 y
ou 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, no
thing
’
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 chic
ken 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 hi
m 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.”

I walked over to the fridge, pulled out a fresh bott
le of chardonnay, and set it on the counter. I stared at it for a while and wondered. What if Peter had changed? What if the Mizzes were right? Or, more likely, what if resistance to all their machinations was futile?

I grabbed the bottle of wine and my ke
ys. Only one way to find out.

“
Hello?”
I said, poking my head inside the front door. “
Anybody home?”

They were sitting at the kitchen table, playing Scrabble. I held up the bottle of wine and smiled, as if nothing was wrong. Two can play at that game.

Pete
r stood up, walked over to me, and kissed me on the cheek.

“
I
’
m glad to see you,”
he said.

I smiled up at him. “
Yeah. I brought wine.”

Peter smiled. “
Perfect.”

Vera and Mags grinned up at me and waved me over to the table. Bev didn
’
t glare, which was a ste
p up from the usual. Peter came out from the kitchen with a chair for me and they all cashed in their letters and mixed them up in the center, ready for a new game.

“
So,”
Bev said, “
to what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?”

I smiled brightly. I could be
a Miz Fallon with the best of
’
em. “
Oh, I heard that Carl Raimi dropped the charges, and I thought I
’
d come over to celebrate.”

Mags gasped. “
He dropped the charges? Who told you that?”

“
Ian told me.”
I piled up my letter tiles and avoided Peter
’
s eye as
he poured my wine.

“
I see,”
Bev said. “
Well, that
’
s certainly good news.”

“
Yes,”
Vera said, smiling at me and grabbing my hand. “
It
’
s so good to have you home, baby.”

“
Good to be home,”
I said with a smile, lifting my glass. “
Now let
’
s get drunk and play us some Scrabble.”

I was standing on the back porch smoking a cigarette when I heard the screen door open behind me. As a group, we
’
d finished off three games of Scrabble and four bottles of wine, and I was feeling good and lovely.

It
was Bev. She walked up behind me and took my cigarette from me, taking a long drag and handing it back.

“
Bev,”
I said. “
I thought Doctor Bobby told you
—”

“
Of course Doctor Bobby told me not to smoke. He tells everybody not to smoke. I
’
m seventy-six, damnit
, I
’
ll have a goddamn cigarette if I want one.”

I couldn
’
t argue with that. I shook my pack and offered her one. She looked over her shoulder to see if Mags and Vera were watching, then took it and lit up. We smoked in silence for a moment, and then she sp
oke.

“
Peter
’
s a nice young man.”

“
Yes,”
I said. “
He is.”

“
He
’
s doing very well at the store. He
’
s built us a nice window display. He
’
s good.”

I nodded. “
I
’
m sure he is.”

“
You should start coming in during the days again,”
she said. “
It
’
s not right for a yo
ung girl to be shiftless.”

I was going to argue that I was working on my dissertation, but I wasn
’
t sure if opening the file and staring at the last sentence really qualified as “
working,”
so I let it go.

“
He
’
s a good man,”
she said. I looked at her, and f
or the first time that summer, I saw Bev soften a bit toward me. “
You could do worse.”

“
I know,”
I said softly. The screen door opened and Bev shot her cigarette to the ground. I stepped on it inconspicuously as Peter stepped outside.

“
We
’
ve decided as a g
roup that you
’
re too drunk to drive, Portia. So, I
’
ve volunteered to walk you home.”

I smiled, took a final drag off my cigarette, and stepped forward. “
I
’
ll get my jacket.”

“
Portia?”
Peter asked. We
’
d gone halfway to the Page in silence. I knew he was wor
king up to something.

“
Yes?”
I asked.

“
I was hoping that you might let me take you out to dinner. Sometime. Maybe Friday?”

I thought about the dinner with Beauji
’
s parents. “
How about Thursday?”

“
Okay.”
We walked a few more steps.

“
Where?”
I asked.

“
Hmmm?”

“
Where are you taking me to dinner?”

“
Does it matter?”

I shrugged. “
Yes.”

“
I hear there
’
s a nice Italian place in Ringgold, Villa Pastoli.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “
Vera been helping you do more research?”

“
No. Why?”

“
That
’
s my favorite restaurant,”
I said warily. “
You didn
’
t find out from her?”

He shook his head and loo
ked down at his feet. “
No, actu
ally. I just remembered that Italian was always your favorite.”
He met my eye. “
I did pay attention to some things, you know.”

“
I know,”
I said, too qui
ckly.

He paused for a minute. I wrapped my arms around my stomach as my chardonnay high started to wane.

“
We don
’
t have to go,”
he said. “
It
’
s not a big deal. I understand.”

“
No,”
I said. “
No. I
’
d like to go. Really.”

He gave me a small smile. “
Really? It
’
s okay? I don
’
t want to pressure you.”

I smiled back. “
No pressure. Should I meet you at the Mizzes
’
?”

“
No,”
he said, giving me a wink. “
Let me come pick you up.”
The last time I
’
d let a man do that, it had turned into something of a disaster. But since Pe
ter and I were pretty much steeped in disaster anyway, it seemed a reasonable gamble. “
Okay.”

He grinned. “
Great. Thursday it is, then. Seven okay?”

“
Great.”
I stepped up onto the steps below the apartment. “
Thanks for walking me home.”

He smiled. “
No prob
lem.”

He paused for a second. “
Good night, then.”

“
Good night.”

He turned around, took a few steps, then turned back. “
Oh, I almost forgot. A woman named Rhonda called for you. I guess she
’
s subletting your apartment?”

“
Rhonda. Yes,”
I said, a vision of Rh
onda floating to my mind. Blond. Mid-fifties. Secretary for the head of the English Department at Syracuse. Will go to embarrassing lengths not to end a sentence in a preposition. Recently left her husband, thus the sublet. “
What did she want?”