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Not that I’m thinking about what’s beneath his clothes. I realize I’m staring, so I quickly say, “Your roommate have a girl over again?”
He shrugs, then winces. “What can I say? He’s a player.”
Well, looks like I’m not going to be alone here tonight. Might as well accept that and make myself comfortable. This time, though, I don’t sit on the ground next to him. Instead, I take a seat on the small stone bench nestled against the leaves.
“I’d hope that your friend would be a little more considerate, considering your condition,” I say.
“My condition? This is nothing.”
“Nothing? Have you seen your face?”
“It’s just a broken nose and a black eye. Not like I’ve never had one of those before.”
“And your arm?”
“A sprain. I’m fine.” He makes an exasperated sound. “I’m not a fucking invalid.”
“I never said you were.”
We’re both silent for a long moment. If he doesn’t want me to show any concern, then fine. Let him hold on to his stupid, mannish pride.
After a couple of minutes, he sighs. He rubs his face with his good arm.
“Why are you out here?” he says.
“Same as before. I wanted to get away for a while.” I hold up one of the bottles. “I’ve brought more wine.” Though after what happened last time, I’m not sure if it’s a good idea.
“Go ahead, drink it,” he says. “And don’t worry. I won’t try to kiss you again.”
I don’t answer. But I do pull out my keys and dig the cork out of the bottle.
“I thought you might be gone already,” I say. “Or at least I thought the main construction projects would be finished before the press got here. Are you still under contract?”
“What? Sad you’re not rid of me yet?” He gives a bitter laugh.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“To answer your question, yeah, the big stuff’s done. But there’s tons of little shit left to do. They’ve got me laying moldings in some rooms in the eastern wing.”
Again, I can’t tell if he’s happy or sad about that. I’ve managed to get the cork out of the bottle, so I raise the wine and take a long sip before holding it out to Ward.
“Peace offering,” I say.
He nods and takes the bottle. He takes a long drink, but I feel his eyes on me the entire time.
And then he coughs.
“Fuck,” he says, laughing. “This shit’s even worse than the last one. How much does this crap cost?”
“More than you want to know.” I steal the bottle back.
“Jesus. They should pay their customers to drink that crap. Not the other way around.”
For a while, we just pass the bottle back and forth, taking swigs and saying nothing. Finally, when the bottle is half empty, I take another shot.
“Why do you do it?”
He shifts slightly. “Do what?”
“Pick fights.” I nod in the direction of his arm. “If you came all the way down here from Chicago for this opportunity, then why are you so determined to get yourself fired?”
“I didn’t get fired.”
“You know what I mean.”
It’s his turn at the bottle, and he takes a long drink. Finally he says, “Have you ever been angry? And I don’t mean pissed about some idiotic thing that someone said or your pizza being late or something. I mean really angry. At the world. At everything.”
His question so closely echoes the mess of emotions that I’ve been dealing with these past few days. I was right, then, back in the theater when I wondered if he was suffering from the same sort of internal madness that I am.
I look at him. He looks exhausted, defeated, but I suspect the upbeat, playful Ward is still in there somewhere.
“Why are you angry?” I say.
He gives a single shake of his head. “I’m not sure it even matters anymore.”
Slowly, I sink down onto the ground in front of him. “Of course it matters.”
One side of his mouth lifts. “When you get to the point that you’re angry at everything, does it really make a difference how or why it started?”
“You’re not angry at everything,” I say after a moment. “If that were true you’d be a lot more serious. You wouldn’t laugh about nasty expensive wine. You wouldn’t continually tease me about the, uh, unusual circumstances that started our little acquaintance.”
That gets a slightly better smile out of him, but no response. I lean toward him.
“You know it’s true,” I say. “There are a few happy places inside your head, aren’t there?”
This is the first time I’ve seen his injuries so close, and even in the moonlight my heart twists. His swollen eye looks so painful that I can’t stop myself from reaching out and touching it gingerly.
His hand flies up and catches mine.
“You don’t want to do that,” he says, his voice breathier than it was a moment ago.
“Are you angry with me?” I ask.
“For poking at my bruise? A little.”
“That’s not what I mean.” I take a deep breath. “I mean about the other night.” For running away from you.
He still hasn’t released my hand, but I can’t bring myself to pull my fingers away. His grip tightens slightly, and a jolt of warmth shoots up my arm.
“Are you angry with me?” he asks.
“I asked you first. And I don’t care if that argument is cliché.”
He smiles at our old joke.
“I’m not mad if you aren’t,” he says finally. Then he drops his hand and sits back against the hedge.
I draw my fingers back, though I want to reach out and touch him again. “I’m not mad.”
“Good.” He nods, but his smile from a moment ago is gone.
“See?” I tell him. “You aren’t angry at everything.”
“It’s a little more complicated than that.”
“Actually,” I say, sitting back on my heels. “I seem to remember you saying that everything was simple. That it was our heads that got in the way.”
He smirks. “That was a very different conversation.”
“The advice still applies. And it’s bad form to give advice that you refuse to take yourself.”
“What about you? Did you take the advice you’re throwing so cheerfully back in my face?”
