“It’s okay. You were right, about us. About it not making sense. Bad timing, yadda yadda yadda. But I can’t have a comfortable, moderately well-known writer in town for a whole summer and not kiss him at least once, right? I’m a Miz Fallon. I have a reputation to protect.”
I pulled my eyes away and got out, deliberately not looking at him as I crossed in front of the car and headed toward my apartment. If I’d looked at him, I would have gone home with him. And I was pretty sure he would have taken me.
And then he would leave, and there’s only so much Penis Teflon a girl can stand in one lifetime.
“Hey, Rhonda, it’s Portia.” I leaned over the back office desk, my hand playing with the pen jar in the little pool of light from the green library lamp. I glanced out the open office door. It was a quarter after eight, and the Mizzes didn’t typically stop by after closing at seven, but I was still a little nervous. I’d had the little yellow piece of paper with Jack’s name on it for a week, and had snuck down every night to call. Every night I went to bed without doing it.
The night before, I’d picked up the phone and listened to the dial tone before hanging up.
Tonight I called Rhonda, the English department secretary who’d sublet my apartment in Syracuse. Hey, progress is still progress, right?
“Portia!” Rhonda said. “How are you?”
“Great,” I lied. Well, it wasn’t entirely a lie. If you discounted romance, family, and career, things were just peachy. “How about you?”
“Okay,” she said. “I haven’t found a new apartment yet, but the judge ordered the Rotten Bastard to pay me eight hundred a month to cover it, so that’s good.”
Rhonda’s husband, before the divorce, had been named John. “I heard you tried to call me,” I said.
“Oh, yes, you have a message.” I heard some papers ruffling in the background. “Where is it...Where is it...? I have to apologize, Portia, things here are a bit of a mess. I promise I'll get it cleaned up before you get home, though. Oh, here it is. Jack called.” I sat up straight. ‘Jack? Jack who?”
Rhonda hummed for a moment as she thought. “I want to say Triplesec, but I don’t think that’s it.”
I swallowed. “Tripplehorn?”
“Yes!” I could hear the slap of Rhonda’s hand against my kitchen counter. “Thank you. That was driving me crazy. Anyway, I didn’t tell him where you were. You know, in case he was a stalker or something.” I heard her take a bite of something crunchy. I envisioned carrots. “He left a number. Do you want it?”
“No,” I said. “Thanks. I have it. Were there any other messages for me?”
Rhonda hummed again. “Nothing I can think of.”
“Okay. Great. Thanks, Rhonda.”
I hung up and walked over to the office door, staring out into the Page. The sun was setting, glazing everything in an orange glow. I stepped out into the shop and walked between the shelves, holding my fingers out to graze both sides at once, the way I had when I was a little girl. It was easier to do now.
It was a hell of a coincidence, chickening out of calling my father only to get a message from him. It was a convergence, as Vera would say.
It was a sign.
And I was a coward.
“Are you busy?” I held up a bottle of wine as Ian opened the front door. “I need to drink and Beauji’s nursing, so ..
I gave him my most winning smile. He laughed and stepped aside, letting me in. I headed into the kitchen and began opening drawers, looking for a corkscrew.
“How’s the book coming?”
Ian leaned against the kitchen doorway, watching me with a small smile. “Excellent, actually. Almost done.”
I focused my attention on rummaging through a drawer. “And when you’re done…”
I trailed off. He looked away.
“I go back to England.”
“Yeah,” I said, trying to reason away the icy panic that shot through me at the thought. I mean, it’s not like I didn’t know he’d be going back. So there was no reason why my hands should suddenly be shaking.
No reason at all.
“Well.” I shut the drawer with my hip. “That makes sense.”
We looked at each other for a moment. I felt a desperate thirst for wine. I opened another drawer, blinking furiously as I rifled through it. No corkscrew. I forced a laugh as the panic rose. “Please tell me I’m not going to have to open this wine with my teeth.”
Ian stepped forward, moved me out of the way, and slid open a drawer to my left. He pulled out a corkscrew and straightened up, looking down at me as he slowly shut the drawer with his knee. A smile played on one side of his mouth. I could feel a sheen of sweat forming on the back of my neck as my heart rate kicked up.
“Hey, hey,” Ian said softly, his eyebrows knitting in concern as tears fell down my cheeks. He dropped the corkscrew onto the counter and put his hands on my shoulders. I lowered my head. Ian tucked a finger up under my chin and pulled my face up to look at him, his eyes searching mine.
“You must think I’m the weepiest person on the planet,” I said, swiping at my face.
“Oh, not at all.” His smile quirked up at one side. “I’m certain in a world of over six billion people that there are likely hundreds out there weepier than you. Possibly thousands, even.” My small laugh turned into a series of staccato sobs. Ian ran his hand over my hair and settled it on the back of my neck, his thumb rubbing into my shoulder, calming me.
“My father called me,” I gurgled finally. “I got the message today. I haven’t talked to him yet, but...”
“But you will, and it’ll be fine.”
I looked up at him. “It will?”
He smiled. “I promise.”
More tears rained down. Ian lowered his head to look into my eyes. “I take it there’s more?”
“Yes,” I said, the tears coming with ferocity now. “Bev hates me.”
“I’m sure that’s not true,” he said.
“It’s true,” I sniffled. “I asked her about the Penis Teflon and she yelled at me and stormed out. She hasn’t spoken to me in a week.”
Ian put his hands on either side of my face, using his thumbs to wipe my cheeks. “She loves you. She’ll recover.”
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 of 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 corkscrew.
“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 deep 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 grateful to take the blame?”
“He didn’t...shirk,” I said, trying to regain my hold on what h
ad 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, anyway?”
“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 perhaps 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 me 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 door 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 wineglass 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 moment, 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 completely 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 that 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.
“Hey, 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 proper 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 for 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, running 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 was 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 when 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 time 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 tilted 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 walked 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.”
“So why are you reading it now?”
I didn’t say anything. Peter reached over, picked up the book, and looked at the picture, then set it down again.
“Never mind. I can guess why.”
“What is your problem? You know Ian and I are friends.”
“Yeah. Well.” He walked over to the coffee bar. “This is a really stupid argument.
I’m gonna make some coffee. You want some?
I nodded, three parts guilty, one part indignant.
“Portia, honey!” Vera’s voice rang through the store accompanied by the jangling bells on the door handle. “Are you helping out today?”
“No, actually,” I said. “I was in here reading last night and I guess I fell asleep.”
“Too bad,” she said, glancing at Peter and then tossing a smile my way. “Peter and I were just talking about updating the window display with the summer beach reads. You know, put up a lawn chair and a towel and maybe a beach ball, then set all the books around it.”
I raised an eyebrow at Peter. “Your idea?”
Peter stared at me, saying nothing.
“Of course it was his idea,” Vera said, patting him on the arm. “He’s brilliant. He’s a godsend to this place.”
She winked at me and walked back to the office, chattering about placing an order for the children’s section. I smiled at Peter.
“I’d like to go upstairs and shower, but I could come back if you really need the help.”
Finally, he smiled. “I’d like that.”
“Hey, that looks great!” Vera said as she checked out the window display, filled with beach-style paraphernalia and about twenty breezy paperbacks. She grinned at Peter and me. “You two make a great team.”
Peter touched the small of my back lightly, then pulled his hand away. “I’ve always thought so.”
I tucked my hand into my pocket and felt the little piece of paper I’d been carrying around with me for days. It was as good an excuse to get away as any, and maybe if I picked up the phone during the day rather than at night, I’d actually go through with it and dial.
“Hey, Vera, do you think I might be able to use the phone in the office for about fifteen minutes?” I caught her eye. “Privately.”
“Sure, honey,” she said. “Go on back. Peter and I will sit with some coffee and admire your handiwork.”
Peter squeezed my elbow. “See you soon.”
I stepped away, tightening my grip on Mags’s red sweater, and headed toward the back office.
Ex and the Single Girl Page 17