Ex and the Single Girl (6 page)

“
The thing about the Mizzes is that they
’
re not bad people,”
I said. “
They
’
re good people. They jus
t do stupid things. Sometimes. I mean...”
I sighed, briefly wondered what my point was, and kept going. “
They
’
re not bad people...”

“
Don
’
t feel you have to defend them to me. I think they
’
re delightful. Barmy, but delightful.”
Ian looked at his wineglass,
then back up at me. “
Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

“
Of course.”

“
Of course you mind, or
—”

“
Fire away. I
’
m an open book.”

“
Where
’
s your father?”

I blinked. “
Gone.”

He raised an eyebrow. “
Gone? Did he die, or...?”

“
No. Just gone. Long time ago. I bar
ely remember him. Anyway, did I tell you that Marlowe is the real Shakespeare?”
Ian gave a small nod.
Point taken, topic dropped.

“
Yes, you told me,”
he said. “
It
’
s an interesting theory.”

“
It
’
s not theory. It
’
s fact.”

“
It
’
s theory until you prove it, whic
h no one has done.”

He crawled over on the bed until he was sitting next to me, then reached over me and grabbed the bottle of wine on the night-stand, attending to each of our glasses until the last drop had been shed. I watched him, enjoying everything a
bout him. His soft hair. The five o
’
clock shadow running roughly over his jaw and neck. The way he kept asking me questions and listening to the answers.

“
How can you listen to all this and not die of boredom?”
I slurred as he placed the empty bottle on th
e other side of the bed. He settled back next to me. Our legs were touching. He shrugged and smiled.

“
I like to listen to people. That
’
s how I get my characters. And apparently, I
’
m not the only one who does that, Eloise.”

“
I can walk north,”
I said, heari
ng a snap in my voice that I hadn
’
t intended. I still didn
’
t understand what the hell that was supposed to mean. Peter had told me it was symbolic, but he had spoken around the meaning
—
something about magnetic forces that repel each other,
blah blah blah
.
I pretended to understand, but I never did. It still irritated me, and I was glad the book didn
’
t sell well, making it easily forgettable. Until now.

“
All right.”
Ian sighed. “
Let
’
s not talk about Peter. I
’
ve learned my lesson on that one.”

My head shot up
and wobbled a bit. “
What do you mean? I can talk about Peter. I
’
m fine talking about Peter.”

“
You tense up the moment his name comes into the conversation, and I enjoy you more when you
’
re relaxed. Let
’
s move on, shall we? Tell me about your…
favorite boo
k.”

I decided not to lay into him for the tense remark. He was doing me a favor, after all, and he
’
d earned a little slack.

“
We
’
ve been talking about me all night. What
’
s
your
favorite book?”

“
You
’
re much more interesting than I am,”
he said.

“
To you, mayb
e. I already know me. Now answer the question.”
He sighed. “
I don
’
t have a favorite book. Whatever I
’
m reading at the time is usually my favorite book.”

“
Ahhhh,”
I said, rolling my head back to rest against the headboard as I tilted my face toward him. “
No
ncommittal answer. Future politician potential. And your favorite color?”

He rested his head back and looked up at the ceiling. “
Blue.”

“
Oh, God, boring,”
I said.

His head pivoted to look at me. “
How is blue boring?”

“
Because every man
’
s favorite color is blue.”

“
That
’
s not true. My father
’
s favorite color was red.”

“
Have you ever been married?”

Ian froze for a second, then tilted his head at me. “
Why would you ask that?”

“
Why would you ask me about my father?”

“
Because I was curious.”

“
And so am I.”

He was silent for a moment, then gave a slow nod. “
Yes, I was married. A long time ago. I hardly remember it. Did I ever tell you Marlowe is the real Shakespeare?”

I laughed. “
Rebuff duly noted, I will not bring it up again.”

“
I
’
m sorry, I di
dn
’
t mean to make you feel
—”

“
Tell me about your favorite...”
I said, talking over him with a hint of a smile so he
’
d know I wasn
’
t really offended. I paused, turning my face toward his. Our noses were inches apart. I could smell the wine on his breath.

“
M
y favorite…
?”
He was still smiling, but the amusement in his eyes was waning as we looked at each other. I thought about the other items tucked in the pack Bev had given me. I felt my cheeks grow warm again and rolled my eyes at myself.

“
What?”
he said, ey
ebrows knitting.

“
Remember what I told you about Flying?”
I asked.

“
Yes.”
His smile quirked up on one side. “
I hardly think I
’
ll forget it.”

I put my hand on his cheek. It was warm sandpaper. He inhaled sharply at my touch. I liked that.

“
We could…
fly for
real if you
’
d like,”
I said, barely whispering.
Kiss me kiss me kiss me
reeled around in my head, like a drunk trying to find a place to lie down.

Ian turned his face, kissed the palm of my hand, and got up, taking both of our wineglasses.

“
I think we
’
ve
had enough,”
he said, settling the wineglasses on the dresser top as he blew out the candles.

“
It
’
s okay. I
’
ve got condoms in the pack right here, if that
’
s what you
’
re worried about.”

He laughed and sat down on the bed next to me, putting his hands on eit
her side of my waist as he leaned over me.

“
I have very few rules but one of them involves future English professors who
’
ve had too much to drink.”

“
Oh.”
I thought about arguing over whether I
’
d had too much, but since I was struggling not to slur my words
, I figured I
’
d just let it go.

“
Don
’
t be hurt,”
he said. His voice was soft and he was leaning in closer. “
It
’
s not personal.”

“
Rejection is always personal.”

“
I haven
’
t rejected you...”
he began, pulling back.

“
Whatever.”
I flicked my hand at him, shooing him away. I snatched the covers, pulling them up to my chin and flopping on my side, trying to pretend that I wasn
’
t reliving a thousand rejections, both real and imagined. “
All right. Off with you, then.
’
Night.”

He push
ed himself up off the bed. I heard him moving around in the room, and right when I expected to hear the door closing quietly behind him, I instead caught the distinctive sound of a zipper. I shot up in bed in time to see him taking off his pants.

“
Offer
’
s
off the table, Sir Ian. Back to the farm with you.”
He laughed, stepping out of his pants and flipping his T-shirt over his head. He was wearing a pair of flannel boxer shorts. I withheld my sigh. He looked good.

“
I
’
ve never left a woman in the middle of t
he night,”
he said, pulling the covers up and hopping into bed next to me, “
and I don
’
t intend to start now. You
’
re not the only one with a reputation to protect. Or sully, as the case may be.”
He lay down on his side, propping his head up on his palm. “
Y
o
u
’
re a very complicated woman, Eloise.”

I put a glare in my voice. “
Don
’
t call me that.”

“
Right,”
he said. “
Bad form. I apologize. Would you set the alarm for six? I write in the mornings.”

I gave a frustrated sigh, then reached for the alarm clock and set
it for six. I could feel him settle on his side, his back to me. I huffed, pulling myself up out of bed and over to the dresser.

“
Can you keep your eyes closed for a minute, please?”
I asked.

“
My back is to you,”
he said.

“
I know,”
I said. “
Humor me.”

He
chuckled. “
Consider yourself humored.”

I stepped out of the sundress and into a T-shirt
—
Huey Lewis,
Sports
Tour, 1983
—
and a pair of sweats cut into shorts. I sneaked into bed next to him, flat on my back, arms tight at my sides over the covers.

“
Can I open
my eyes now?”
he asked.

“
Yes.”

He rolled over until he was facing me, his head perched up on his hand. There was just enough light coming in through the window for me to see he was smiling.

“
You are a highly unusual woman,”
he said in a rough whisper. I l
ocked my eyes on the ceiling. “
Can I ask you a question?”

“
Absolutely.”

I swallowed and forced myself to look into his eyes. “
This is going to sound suggestive, but the offer to Fly for real is still officially off the table. Understood?”

He smiled and nod
ded. “
Understood.”

I closed my eyes, letting the room spin around me. “
Do I...repulse you?”

He drew back, as though he
’
d just touched something sharp. “
What?”

Am I the kind of woman who will drive every man away screaming?
I thought
.
Am
I made of Penis Teflon?

“
Let me put it another way,”
I said out loud, my voice stretching tight and thin. “
Do you think I
’
m...attractive? You know, as a woman?”