Ex and the Single Girl (33 page)

I felt a hitch in my breathing as
I looked into his eyes. His smile faded a touch, his thumbs slowing as they moved over my cheeks. I could hear his heart hammering in his chest. Or maybe that was mine. We were so close I couldn
’
t be sure. One of his hands moved over and tucked a strand
o
f hair behind my ear.

Oh, God.

“
And then there
’
s...Peter,”
I said, the words tumbling over each other to get out, as though they couldn
’
t wait to screw things up. Ian paused for a moment, then lowered his hands and stepped away from me, reaching for the co
rkscrew.

“
What about Peter?”
he asked, his voice cool and even. “
We...we had dinner,”
I stammered, wishing to God and all the saints that I had just kept my big, stupid mouth shut. “
How did that go?”
he asked, his voice flat.

“
Okay, actually.”
I took a dee
p breath and swiped the last of the wetness from my face. “
Although it turns out our breakup was really all my fault.”

Ian popped the cork. “
How so?”

“
I sabotaged him. I made him feel like a failure.”

I could see his jaw tighten as he poured the wine. “
He
told you that, did he?”

“
Well, not in so many words, but it
’
s true. I remember now, the things I did, and it makes so much sense. I can
’
t believe I didn
’
t see it before.”

Ian handed me a glass and shook his head. “
He
’
s quite the fellow, isn
’
t he?”

I took a
gulp of wine. It cut through my throat, but the instant softening afterward was worth it. “
What
’
s that supposed to mean?”

“
You don
’
t find it interesting, how he shirks all responsibility for the collapse of the relationship, simultaneously making you grat
eful to take the blame?”

“
He didn
’
t...shirk,”
I said, trying to regain my hold on what had seemed so logical only moments before. “
But it sheds some light on the whole Penis Teflon thing, don
’
t you think?”

“
Frankly, no.”
Ian downed half his glass and gave
me a sharp look. “
It certainly sheds some light on Peter, though.”

“
Oh, yeah?”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “
How so?”
He looked at me like I was the stupidest person on the planet. “
He abandons you with a note, scribbled in
—
of all places
—
his own book.
You hear not a word from him for four months, and then he
’
s proposing on your doorstep, as though you should be happy to have him back. Then he takes you to dinner and convinces you the breakup was all your fault. And you don
’
t see anything wrong with any
of this?”

“
Well,”
I stammered, not sure if I was defending Peter or myself. “
It
’
s complicated. There
’
s more...involved than what you know about. We have...a history...”

Ian rolled his eyes and gave a cynical laugh.

“
Just what exactly is your problem, anywa
y?”

“
I don
’
t have a problem,”
he said through clenched teeth. “
I
’
m just asking reasonable questions. It might behoove you to do the same.”

“
It might
behoove
me?”
I said. “
What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“
It means it would be in your best interests
—”

“
You know that
’
s not what I meant!”
My voice was loud enough now to bounce off the hard kitchen surfaces.

“
I
know
what you meant,”
he said, matching my decibel level, “
and if I must explain myself, it means that Peter is a narcissistic asshole and perha
ps you should take that into consideration before you run off and bloody marry him!”

He stopped. His breathing was uneven, and there were red patches on his cheeks. He rubbed his forehead with one hand, and his voice was soft when he spoke again.

“
Excuse m
e for a moment, will you?”

He headed out, leaving the kitchen door swinging behind him. I closed my eyes, not knowing what to do. Follow him? Wait there? Sneak out the back and run home and duck under the covers, refusing to come out until everything made
sense or I was too old to care?

I pushed through the swinging door. The dining room and living room were empty. I poked my head out the front door and saw Ian sitting on the porch swing, lit only by the soft glow coming through the window. I closed the doo
r behind me, and waited for him to say something. When he didn
’
t, I spoke.

“
I
’
m not going to marry him,”
I said.

Ian didn
’
t move. “
Have you given him the ring back?”

I didn
’
t say anything. Ian stared out at the trees flanking the property and twirled his w
ineglass absently in his fingers. “
Then you haven
’
t exactly declined, now have you?”

“
What does that have to do with anything, Ian?”

He glanced up at me, and then looked away. “
You
’
re my friend. I see you making what I think is a tremendous mistake. I find
it hard to believe you
’
d want me to keep quiet on something like that.”

“
I wouldn
’
t.”
I paused and took a deep breath. “
I wouldn
’
t want you to keep quiet about anything.”

I could feel my heart rate kick up as I said the words. I couldn
’
t tell what he was
thinking, only that whatever it was, he wasn
’
t going to share it with me.

“
Good night, Ian.”
I set my wineglass down on the porch railing and headed toward the steps.

“
Wait.”

I stopped.

Ian
’
s eyes raised to mine. “
Please.”

We stared at each other for a mom
ent, then he motioned toward the space next to him on the porch swing. I walked over and sat down, staring ahead as the trees turned into a blackened silhouette against the darkening sky.

“
I
’
m sorry, Portia. I shouldn
’
t have reacted that way. I was complet
ely out of line.”

“
It
’
s okay,”
I said.

“
It
’
s not,”
he said. “
But I thank you for your generosity.”
We exchanged simple smiles, neither of us able to maintain the eye contact for too long before we stared back out at the trees.

“
Take your time finishing tha
t novel, okay?”
I hung my head as the heat rose behind my eyes. “
Who am I going to run to when I
’
m all weepy and stupid if you
’
re not around?”

I nudged my knee playfully against his. He nudged back, then looked up at me with a smile that quickly faded.

“
He
y, no,”
he said, reaching up and wiping a stray tear from my cheek. His voice was barely above a whisper. “
Now what
’
s that about?”

I forced myself to meet his eye. His hand snaked around to the back of my neck, and he pulled me toward him, kissing me on my
forehead.

“
We
’
ll stay in touch,”
he said. “
We
’
ll be transatlantic pen pals. You can tell me stories of your barmy family ..

I chuckled and leaned my head against his shoulder. He put his arm around me and rested his head on mine.

“
...and I
’
ll send you pro
per tea and biscuits. It
’
ll all be quite lovely, actually. Don
’
t you think?”

I didn
’
t think. I couldn
’
t think. I just sat there, taking comfort in his touch as his hand stroked from my shoulder to my elbow and back again. We rocked on the swing in silence
for a while until I finally got up to go home, and he let me, neither one of us saying a word.

Chapter Eleven

At midnight, I went into the office at the Page and flicked on the lights, then walked over to the desk and grabbed a trash can to prop
the door open, letting the office light flow into the store. I gasped for a second, thinking Mags was in the office, and then I realized it was just her red cardigan, draped over the back of the office chair. I had an impulse to pick it up and smell it f
o
r her perfume, the way I had on occasion when I was little, but instead I turned and walked out into the store.

I inhaled the earthy scents of books and old wood, and felt some of my jagged pieces flow back together. I walked between the rows of shelves, r
unning my fingers over the spines of the books. The old squeaky floorboard welcomed me in Nonfiction Bestsellers. I rubbed my thumb over the chunk of white showing through the green wall, where I
’
d rammed it with a cart after an argument with Mags when I
w
as in high school.

I put a kettle of water on the hot plate at the coffee bar and grabbed my itty bitty book light out from behind the counter. I wandered to the fiction section and picked
Flyover,
the first novel in the Tan Carpenter series, off the shelf
. I
’
d read it, but I wanted to read it again. I tossed it and the book light on one of the big easy chairs, then went back and grabbed Mags
’
s sweater, pulling it around my shoulders, inhaling the scent of her perfume, and remembering how great she
’
d been
w
hen I was in crisis as a kid. Whatever it was
—
bike injury, broken heart
—
Mags would always wrap her arms around me and I
’
d take in her scent and I
’
d know everything was going to be okay. Between that and the smell of the Page, I was calmed enough by the ti
m
e I sat down that I fell asleep almost instantly, hugging the book to my chest and dreaming of spies and red sweaters.

“
Portia?”

I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked up.

Peter.

“
Hey,”
I said. “
Sorry. Guess I fell asleep.”

He grinned. “
Ya think?”
He tilte
d his head, looking at the back of
Flyover,
which I was still hugging to my chest. His smile faded. He pointed to the book.

“
You
’
re reading a spy novel?”

I shut the book and stood up. “
Yeah.”

I could see his smile took effort. “
Is it good?”

“
Yeah.”
I walke
d to the front counter and set the book down. He snorted.

“
What?”

“
You hate genre fiction.”

“
No, I don
’
t.”

“
Yes, you do.”

“
Only because I never read it.”