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“Or their left,” Pixie snapped acerbically.
“No. No. That’s not what I—”
Pixie sighed and quickly retracted. “I know you didn’t, Doug. But I… Do you see how sensitive I am? I hear something like that, even from you, and I instantly think it’s a slur of some kind. I’ve been the butt of so many ‘crip’ jokes over the years—even by guys who are supposedly interested in getting to know me—I get my back up without any additional provocation. So how can I be expected to believe you without getting suspicious?”
Now there was a serious growl coming from Doug’s direction. “I think you’ve met a lot of assholes.”
Pixie turned hurt eyes toward Doug, pinning him with a stare. “And a few people who seem sincerely interested, thenback off without explanation.” She couldn’t keep the hurt out of her voice.
“Dammit, Pixie.” Doug ran a hand back through his thick, sandy brown hair, but this time he didn’t look away, letting her see the regret in his eyes. “I never meant…”
“I know.” Pixie decided to give him a pass. She quickly regained her equilibrium, forcibly broke eye contact, and brought the rice to the table, followed by the beans. “Sit. We can pick away at our food, thenwhateveryou feel comfortable sharing will do.” She scooted into her chair so he wouldn’t continue standing, looking awkward as hell.
Doug deflated as he slid his big body into a chair opposite hers. “I’m sorry. About everything. I’m not very good at this.”
“At what?” she asked, dishing herself up a couple enchiladas.
“Social shit. Knowing what to say.” He nodded as she held out the serving spoon with some gooey goodness aimed at his plate. Pixie gave him a generous helping while he sat still, zoning out and staring blankly at the wall.
Pixie waited.
In her two dates with Doug, she’d gotten used to this. He seemed—as with the cupboard incident earlier—often times to need several minutes of contemplation; a quiet analyzation of things that were said, in order to wrap his mind around them.
She’d be patient, as she often was with students who had trouble searching for and finding the right words. She forked in a bite of her food, chewing slowly.
“I’m making a mess of this,” he finally said, but took his cue from her and started eating.
The lovely meal felt like ashes on her tongue, waiting to hear what Doug would say. She hoped he wasn’t about to give her some pat excuses that would in no way fill in the blanks he’d caused when he’d left her high and dry.
“I never should have asked you out in the first place. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
Pixie frowned, even knowing it accentuated the deep worry line between her brows, but she couldn’t help it. “So you were never attracted to me? I was a…pity date?” It had seemed otherwise at the time, but maybe she’d simply had stars in her eyes.
“No!” Doug answered so rapidly and abruptly, Pixie inhaled, then slowly swallowed the bite she’d over-chewed so she wouldn’t choke on it. He certainly seemed sincere. Maybe it was time for her to share a few more things regarding how damaged she was when it came to dating, or even thinking about dating. At the least, it would take the heat off Doug and give him a chance to regroup, which he seemed to need.
“There’s this guy at work,” she began, not missing his instantaneous scowl.
Oh. So Doug hadn’t retreated into his head? He’d heard her loud and clear? Could she hope it was jealousy she was seeing on his face? With a little more confidence, Pixie continued. “He’s a remedial reading teacher who comes in every week on Thursdays.”
“And?” Doug asked, his jaw tight as he shoveled in a bite.
“He wants me to go out with him, but I know it’s for the wrong reasons.”
Doug looked like he could spit nails. “What’s his agenda?”
“He’s…fixated on my bad arm. When we talk, he never looks me in the face, he stares at my useless appendage. And when he’s near me, he always touches me there, or brushes against my arm on purpose.”
A deep growl emanated from somewhere in Doug’s throat. “Have you told him he’s an asshole? If you haven’t, I’d be glad to do it for you.”
Pixie shook her head, but gave him a sad smile. “You’re missing the point.”
“Which is?”
“That the only men I’ve managed to appeal to are ones who are morbidly fascinated by my disability, or those who want to feel good about themselves, giving me pity dates.”
And now, here it was. The moment of truth.
“Which one are you, Doug?”
