Ex and the Single Girl (29 page)

“
I don
’
t kn
ow. Just said for you to call her.”

“
Okay. Thanks.”

Peter stood there for a minute, watching me, then said, “
Okay, then. I
’
ll see you on Thursday.”

I smiled. “
See you.”

I watched him walk away, then leaned against the wall by the stairs, trying to focus my
eyes on the stars over my head. He was a good-looking man, Peter. I had to give him that. And what harm could an innocent little dinner do? Nothing terribly significant could happen; I was coated in Penis Teflon, after all. Peter, Ian, and my father were
all proof of that. As a matter of fact, I would have hardly been surprised if Peter was taking me out specifically for the purpose of retracting his proposal.

I walked up the stairs and entered the house, horrified at the mess that was my living room. I pi
cked up the trash can and headed for the coffee table where the overflowing ashtray and empty chardonnay bottles surrounding my untouched laptop told the story of how I
’
d spent the last few days. I picked up the ashtray and dumped it into the trash.

“
I
’
ll
bet that
’
s exactly why he
’
s taking me out,”
I said out loud, relief washing through me as I considered the idea of Peter taking it all back, saying he didn
’
t mean it, that he intended to run off to Boston and I should just forget he ever showed up here at
all.

I stood up straight, trash still in my hand, remembering how quickly he
’
d made his escape after our interlude the other night.

Oh, my god.

It was classic Peter; once things started going his way, he backed off. He
’
d done it with our relationship, he
’
d done it with the writing.

And he was doing it again now. It made perfect sense. He was going to retract the proposal. I could feel it in my bones.

“
Bastard.”
I swiped an empty bottle of chardonnay off the coffee table and into the trash can, trying to wo
rk up some anger. It didn
’
t come. I put the trash by the door and wandered into my bedroom, falling asleep to thoughts of old flames and British Flyers.

“
How
’
s that eggplant?”
Peter asked. I looked down at my plate. I
’
d had one small bite and was still che
wing.

“
Mmmmm,”
I said, swallowing. “
And your lasagna?”

Peter looked down at his plate. The lasagna was untouched. He sighed and looked up at me.

“
Portia, we need to talk.”

I touched both sides of my mouth with my napkin and placed it to the side of my plat
e.
Here we go.

“
I think I
’
ve made a mistake.”

And there it was. Penis Teflon. Like magic. I should set up a sideshow act. Have a Web site with a live Web cam so people could watch it happen. For a small fee, of course. Turn Penis Teflon from a curse into t
he source of my livelihood. When life gives you lemons...

“
I rushed down here with this idea in my head that you
’
d be happy to have me back, and I see that isn
’
t the case.”
He held his hands up to silence me before I could respond. “
And that
’
s all right. I
t was unrealistic.”
He sighed. “
I
’
d just like to know that I haven
’
t messed everything up to the point where we can
’
t...be friends.”

“
It
’
s okay, Peter,”
I said. “
I understand. The ring is back at my apartment. You can pick it up tonight.”
I picked up my fo
rk and poked at my eggplant.

He deflated and sat back. “
So...that
’
s your decision?”

I looked up from my plate. “
What? No. That
’
s
your
decision.”

He shook his head. “
No, it
’
s not.”

“
I
’
m sorry?

He leaned forward. “
I think you
’
ve misunderstood. I still want t
o marry you, if you
’
ll have me. My mistake was in the way I
’
ve gone about everything.”

I felt the eggplant stick in my throat and I grabbed my water. “
You mean, you didn
’
t take me out to dinner to retract your proposal?”

Peter
’
s face fell. “
Is that what yo
u thought?”

“
Well...yeah.”

“
Why?”

“
Well...”
I stammered. “
You disappeared pretty quick the other night. You know, after...”

He blinked. “
You asked me to leave. I gave you your space.”

“
By moving in with my family? By taking over the family business?”

“
Oh,
man,”
he said, reaching forward and taking my hand. “
I
’
m sorry, Portia. I really am. I wasn
’
t trying to crowd you. I was trying to show you...”
He trailed off and rubbed his hand over his face. “
I
’
ve screwed this all up.”

“
No, it
’
s not that. I guess I just don
’
t understand.”

I didn
’
t. He wasn
’
t dumping me. He was moving from Boston to be in Truly, Georgia, where he would be running a bookstore. None of it made any sense.

“
What about your writing?”
I asked.

He took a drink of his wi
ne. “
Well, obviously, I
’
m not the kind of writer who can live without a day job. And then your mother called, offering one
—”

“
Offering
me”
I said, stabbing at my meal.

He sighed. “
It
’
s not like that, Portia.”

I put my fork down. “
What is it like, then? You
tell me.”
He put his fork down as well, and looked at me. “
It
’
s like a life. It
’
s stable. A reliable income, a home. I couldn
’
t just live off you forever, writing and making you miserable.”

I blinked. “
What?”

“
Oh, come on, Portia. I knew I was making you
unhappy. I was so absorbed in my writing. It was all about me and I didn
’
t...think about you enough, I guess. You were miserable. Did you think I couldn
’
t see that?”

“
See what?”

“
Oh, come on,”
he said. “
I was a failure. You knew it. I knew it.”

I felt my b
reath rush out of me. I knew that Peter had thought of himself as a failure. It never occurred to me that he thought I agreed.

But he did.

Peter put his fork down without taking a bite, then looked up on my silence. “
Portia?”

“
Did I make you feel like a fa
ilure, Peter?”

Peter shook his head. “
No. No.”

“
Don
’
t be polite,”
I said. “
This is important. Did I make you feel like a failure?”

Peter sat back. “
You can
’
t
make
anyone feel anything, Portia. They have to choose to
—”

“
Peter. Please.”

Peter leaned forward
and took my hand. His eyes were sad, and as I looked at them, it was like I
’
d never really seen them before.

Maybe I hadn
’
t.

“
I know you didn
’
t mean to,”
he said, his voice soft and conciliatory. “
But you were right. I
was
a failure.”

I pulled my hand away
. “
I never said you were a failure.”
Peter shook his head. “
No, of course not.”
He paused, started speaking to his salad. “
It
’
s just that...well, the fact that the book didn
’
t sell always seemed to bother you so much.”

“
Well, of course,”
I jumped in. “
It w
as a great book.”

“
Was it?”
He shrugged. “
Maybe. I don
’
t know.”

I felt ice go down my back. “
It was.”

He sighed.

“
What?”
I asked.

He locked his eyes on my face. “
When I got a great review, you never said a word. But whenev
er the sales numbers came in…”

I blinked. I remembered going to the school computers, looking up his sales on Amazon.com, coming home incensed. I remembered reading the rave he got in
Publishers Weekly
and, instead of hailing his success, I ranted about the average reader
’
s inability to
differentiate good writing from the crap scribbled on the bathroom wall at a college bar.

I had thought I was being supportive.

Peter rubbed his fingers against his forehead. “
I just didn
’
t feel like I could do anything right. I felt myself pulling away.
I felt you pulling away. And I loved you, but I didn
’
t know how to...”

I swallowed, trying to get rid of the tightness in my throat. “
How to what?”

Peter looked up at me. His eyes were misty. “
How to be with you, I guess. I didn
’
t know what you needed from
me, and I was sure whatever it was I wouldn
’
t be able to give it to you.”
He cleared his throat and blinked. “
But I think I can now. And that
’
s why I
’
m here. I
’
m going to run your family
’
s bookstore here in Truly. And I hope you
’
ll be here with me.”

Forev
er.
That was the subtext. I swallowed and said nothing. Peter stared at his plate.

“
I don
’
t know if that
’
s what you want, Portia,”
he said after a long silence. “
But since it
’
s the only thing I haven
’
t tried, I
’
m going for it.”

I managed to get through the
rest of the dinner and a short, lips-only kiss at the front door before I freaked out. As soon as I had the door shut behind me, I grabbed a cigarette, lit up, and began to pace the floor of my apartment.

I had made him feel like a failure.

I had pushed h
im away.

I
had pushed
him
away.

Yes, granted, he should have told me this before he left. And I
’
ll admit, scribbling a breakup into the front page of a book
—
especially his own
—
is seriously questionable behavior. But that stuff didn
’
t matter as much to me a
nymore. What mattered was the fact that I had been so full of my own helpless victimization that it hadn
’
t occurred to me that I
’
d contributed as much
—
if not more
—
to our breakup than he had.