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“How are the girls?” I ask Kathy, knowing exactly what I’m doing.
Kathy is obsessed with her daughters, and she’ll talk about them nonstop if you get her started; it’s a tool I’ve used quite a few times at awkward family dinners when my mom is intent on aiming the focus on me and my life.
“Oh they’re good! Did I tell you Allie lost another tooth?”
For the next thirty minutes, I tune them out and slink back into my thoughts about Madeleine. I know I screwed up last week. From the beginning, I knew Madeleine was someone I could be interested in, so I did my best to respect that. I tried to be polite and distant. Obviously I had moments of weakness, but nothing as terrible as what I did to her in that gymnasium.
I was trying to do the right thing. I was so sure that turning her down and explaining that I wasn’t ready to date was the gentlemanly course of action, but then why did it feel like the exact opposite? Seeing her expression when I turned her down for a date broke something inside of me. She looked so defeated, so utterly embarrassed. No woman wants to be made to feel undesirable.
But that’s not Madeleine’s problem.
She’s too desirable.
I want to be with her. God, I would have taken her against that metal door if that coach hadn’t interrupted us.
And that’s the problem. I tell her one thing and do another. I can’t blame her for being angry with me—I’m angry with me.
From here on out, I should leave her the hell alone. I should stop calling her and get someone else to cover the puppy training classes. I should bury my head in work and focus on myself.
Instead, as I walk back to the clinic after lunch, I try calling her work phone, half expecting her to screen my call.
On the third ring, she picks up.
“Good afternoon, Madeleine Thatcher at Hamilton Realty.”
“Madeleine.”
There’s a long pause, and I wonder if she is about to hang up.
“Can we talk for a second?” I ask before she can.
She sighs. “I’m at work, Adam. What do you need?”
She clearly wants nothing to do with me, but that’s to be expected.
“I think we should talk.”
“Okay, and I don’t think we should talk. Is there anything else?”
I’ve never heard her voice so devoid of emotion.
“So you’re not upset with me about the other night?”
“Not at all.”
She’s bluffing.
“All right, then I’d like to come by and run Mouse tonight.”
“I have plans.”
Another bluff.
“I’ll come by before your plans.”
Someone on her end of the line warns her about a meeting starting in five minutes in the conference room. She tells them she’s headed there now.
“If you say no,” I continue, “I’ll assume you’re still upset about the other night.”
I’m not proud of myself, but my underhanded tactic works.
“Fine,” she says. “Be there at six.”
Okay, maybe I’m a little proud.
…
I’m standing on her doorstep at 5:55 PM and I can hear her shuffling around inside. After I knock, she scurries to the door and unlatches the lock. I’m a little taken aback to find her standing on the other side in a skimpy red cocktail dress. It’s fitted around her waist and the short hem falls to mid-thigh—barely.
She’s putting in her second earring and waves me in with a small nod.
“Come in. I’m almost done getting ready.”
“For what?”
Maybe she doesn’t hear me, or maybe she feels she doesn’t owe me an answer. She disappears into her room and I hear her shuffling through her closet. Mouse tries his best to monopolize my attention, winding through my legs while holding a ball in his mouth, desperate to be pet. I rub behind his ear, sinking my fingers into his soft puppy fur, and crane my neck to get a look inside Madeleine’s room. She’s sitting on her bed, strapping on high heels. Her dress has ridden up, barely covering her upper thighs.
“Do you have a date?”
She jerks up and sees me watching her.
“No, I just like getting dressed up like this for fun.”
Her words drip with sarcasm. She pushes off her bed and closes her door, cutting off my view. She might as well be telling me to fuck off.
It’s just Mouse and me for a few minutes. I could leave and get started on our run. Instead, I help myself to a glass of water and take a seat back on the couch. Her apartment seems smaller than the last time I was in it, or maybe I didn’t pay attention before. Now, with her hidden away in her room, I have nothing to do but snoop.
Her antique coffee table is cluttered with books. There are stacks of paperbacks piled underneath and layered on top. There’s no bookshelf that I can see—it’s not like one would fit—and it seems she uses the table instead. Spines face me and I scroll down the list, recognizing one out of the ten titles: All the Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr. On a whim, I reach for it, appreciating the worn spine. There’s a yellow sticky note tucked between the pages and I flip to it, wondering what passage she found important enough to refer back to. Maybe I liked that passage too.
