Ex and the Single Girl (37 page)

“
Well, technically, your father
’
s taxes paid for this one, but good enough.”
Peter took my backpack and slung it over his shoulder, where
it collided with the pack he was carrying. His arm slid around my waist and
guided me toward a grassy slop
ing hill under cover of trees. He put both packs on the ground and began unloading. He laid a large blanket, borrowed from the hotel, over the slope a
nd set out a six-pack of beer, opening a bottle for each of us. We clinked the necks and drank.

“
I also got something else for you,”
he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a pack of cigarettes.

“
Yay!”
I said, and grabbed the pack from him and st
arted slamming it against my palm. “
I know you don
’
t approve, but thank you. I really need these tonight.”

We sat and I lit up and inhaled deep. I stared at the squat, one-story brick school. Peter stared at me.

“
What are you thinking about?”
he asked.

“
Tr
ying not to think,”
I lied. “
Counting bricks in that wall there.”

I pointed. He looked.

“
How many are there?”

“
I don
’
t know,”
I said, taking a drink from my beer. “
I lost count at twelve. So, tell me you
’
re not really going to manage the Page, Peter.”

“
I
’
m
not really going to manage the Page,”
he said with a wry smile.

“
I mean it,”
I said. “
It would be all wrong. You
’
re a wonderful writer. You should be writing.”

He lifted his beer at me. “
But I
’
m no Alistair Barnes, am I?”
I let out a huge breath. “
Why are
you obsessing over him? What does he have to do with any of this, anyway?”

He looked at me. “
I don
’
t know. You tell me.”

“
Oh, God,”
I said, falling back on the blanket and wincing as my spine connected with a large stone. “
I can
’
t deal with this right now
.”

“
You
’
re right,”
Peter said. “
I
’
m sorry.”

We were quiet for a while. I tried to count the leaves on the tree over my head.

I lost count at twelve.

“
What did you mean when you wrote Eloise?”
I said finally. “
Why couldn
’
t she walk in a northerly direction?
”

Peter gave a tiny laugh. “
Oh, man. I haven
’
t thought about that in a while.”

I pushed myself up on my elbows and watched him. “
She was based on me, wasn
’
t she?”

Peter looked at me over his shoulder, then turned back to face the school. “
She
’
s an amalgam
of many women I
’
ve
—”

“
But mostly me, right?”

Peter was silent.

“
I know you
’
ve told me before,”
I said, “
but I want you to really tell me. What did it mean?”

Peter sighed. “
Do you really want to have this discussion right now?”

“
Yes,”
I said. “
I really do.”

“
All right.”
He shifted around to face me. “
It means that you would gladly walk south for the circumference of the earth rather than turn north and walk two steps.”

I sat up. “
That
’
s not true. And I still don
’
t understand what that means.”

Peter laughed.
“
It means you
’
re stubborn. It means you see things a certain way and you refuse to see anything else.”

“
You think I
’
m stubborn?”

Peter laughed again. “
Am I the first person to tell you this?”
I took a drink from my beer, thinking about what Jack had said.
“
Do you think there are things in Mags I don
’
t see?”

“
To be fair, if she was my mother, I don
’
t know if I
’
d see them either.”

“
What do you see?”

Peter took a deep breath and was quiet for a moment. “
She has an interesting walk.”

“
An interesting walk?”

“
So
do you,”
he said, “
but not in exactly the same way. She walks like someone who
’
s paying attention to every step, you know? It
’
s like she doesn
’
t want to miss anything.”

“
And how do I walk?”

“
Like someone with a destination in mind.”

I huffed. “
As long as i
t
’
s south.”

He ran his hand over his hair. “
I
’
m never going to live that down, am I?”

“
Not until you write your next book,”
I said. His smile faded. I hugged my knees to my chest. “
I hate the idea of you giving up your writing because you think it
’
s what I
want.”

“
I hate the idea of you and Alistair Barnes,”
he said.

I opened my mouth to say something, but a light flashed in my eyes.

“
Hey!”
a voice called out. “
Damn kids!”

In a flash, Peter was up. I tried to clean up the cigarette butts
—
this was a kids
’
playground
—
but Peter grabbed my arm.

“
No time!”
he said, hurrying me to the fence.

“
But...all this stuff-
—”

“
No time!”
He pulled me with him, practically hurling me over the fence as the flash of light bounced wildly over the playground to the rhythm of po
unding feet. I landed on the asphalt in the parking lot and ran for the car.

“
You got the keys?”
Peter hollered from behind me.

“
Yes!”
I said.

“
Stop right there...you damn...kids,”
we heard the security guard yelling. He was slowing, out of breath, and by
the time Peter hopped in the car and we tore out of there, he
’
d stopped running and settled for flipping us off from inside the fence. “
Well, you wanted fun and stupid,”
Peter said, laughing. “
And I got it,”
I said. My heart was racing and I was smiling a
n
d it felt good to smile. I grabbed Peter
’
s hand and squeezed it. “
Thank you.”

He pulled my hand up to his lips and kissed it.

“
Anytime, sweetheart. Anytime.”

We stopped at a red light and made eye contact for a long moment. For that moment, I could visuali
ze myself married to him. Forever.

The light turned green and I drove on to the hotel, where we fell asleep in separate double beds.

We left the hotel early the next morning to drive the three and a half hours back so Peter could be in time to help Vera at
the Page. Peter drove while I napped in the passenger seat. When he pulled up in front of the Page, he woke me with a soft kiss on the forehead.

I smiled. “
Here
already
?”

He grinned. “
Here already.”

I stretched and reached in the backseat for my duffel ba
g. “
Thanks, Peter. For driving, for going with me. I appreciate it.”
Peter kept his eyes on mine. “
No problem.”

I smiled, leaned my head against the headrest, and said what I was thinking. “
Peter, if it wasn
’
t for me, would you want to be here?”

He inhaled
deeply. “
What do you mean?”

“
I mean, if it wasn
’
t for me, would you want to manage a small bookstore in northwest Georgia for the rest of your life?”

He shrugged. “
I don
’
t know. Maybe. But it doesn
’
t matter, because I am here for you.”
He turned toward me
, picked up my hand, and kissed my palm. “
And I
’
ll stay here until you tell me to leave.”

“
Why?”
I asked. “
I don
’
t understand. Why do you want to throw away your life on me?”

He released my hand. “
I don
’
t think of it as throwing my life away.”

I looked dow
n at my hands and said nothing. After a moment, Peter sighed.

“
I wish I knew what you wanted, Portia.”

“
That makes two of us,”
I said quietly. I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, then got out o
f the car and headed up to my apartment. I turned on the light and sat down on the couch, squinting at the clock on the VCR.

8:02.

I rested my head back on the couch. Thoughts bumped into each other as they wandered through my tired mind. Jack and the lett
ers I
’
d never gotten. Mags and her never-miss-a- thing walk. Peter offering me forever. Ian offering me nothing. Vera still loving Bridge, after all this time. Bridge still loving Vera. Bev and her anger.

I heard the door bells jingle below, signaling that
Peter was inside the store. I grabbed my car keys and headed out, taking the Mazda out the back of the alley so that Peter wouldn
’
t see me driving past through the windows at the Page. I wanted to remain undetected, at least for a little while.

I
’
d pulled
onto our street just in time to see Mags getting into the Jeep. Big and red and loud, it was easy to follow. I tried to keep a few cars back, but I didn
’
t worry too much about Mags catching me. I didn
’
t care much. I just wanted to know where she was goin
g.

About fifteen minutes later, we arrived at an elementary school in Ringgold. Mags pulled into the lot, parked, and headed through the front door. I waited, watched her walk.

Peter was right about her walk.

Five minutes later, I walked in the same door. T
he halls were empty To my left was a glass fishbowl office with a counter and a woman behind it. I pushed through the door and an older woman with a head of the brightest bottle-red hair I
’
d ever seen smiled up at me.

“
Are you Cecilia
’
s mom?”
she asked. I
looked over her shoulder at a pathetic-looking little girl with red eyes almost as bright as the receptionist
’
s hair.

“
No,”
I said, smiling at the little girl and then down at Big Red. “
What
’
s the matter with her?”

Big Red shook her head compassionately. “
Pinkeye, poor thing. Forgot her eyedrops.”

“
Oh.”
I smiled again at Cecilia, who stopped kicking her legs in and out under the chair long enough to smile back.

“
Can I help you with something else, then?”
Big Red asked, smiling brightly.