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He drapes it around his neck and turns to face me with his hands gripping the ends that have fallen over his shoulders––almost in a protective gesture.
He’s acting weird.
“I came over to say thank you for last night and to, umm, apologize…for, you know, the puking and whatnot.”
I give myself major kudos for managing to do so without choking on the words. It nearly killed me but this was a self-inflicted wound. I have only myself to blame.
I get a flashing image of him gently wiping my face with a washcloth and my mouth draws tight. I’m cringing so hard my facial features may actually get stuck in this position.
A full sixty seconds have passed and he has yet to say a word. In the silent pause I get a worrisome thought. “There’s nothing else…right? Nothing else that someone needs to apologize for. Like…you. Or me…perhaps?”
Pleasesayno. Pleasesayno. Pleasesayno.
“If there was, I would’ve made sure you remembered.”
Actual words. None of my personal favorites, but at least we’re making progress. The indignant look he gives me I can do without however.
His gaze moves down and his brow scrunches. “What happened to your legs?”
I think of the bushes. One of them is as good as dead. “Nothing.”
“You’re all cut up and bleeding.”
I see he hasn’t lost his appetite for playing doctor. And I don’t mean that in the dirty sense. When we were kids, he used to patch me up all the time…like he did last night. I am seriously tragic.
“It’s fine,” I mutter, as I wrestle those thoughts aside and dust off my dignity, which is a little worse for wear at the moment. “Did you sleep over?”
His eyes do this slight narrowing thing, like he’s assessing the intention of my query. “Someone had to make sure you didn’t suffocate on your own vomit.”
Lovely. I instantly turn a florescent shade of red and it has nothing to do with the sweltering heat. What’s another hit to my pride at this point anyway. I guess it’s safe to say he’s not going to make this easy.
“Look, in the spirit of Rowdy’s wishes, can we call a truce while I’m here?”
After a searching stare, he nods.
“I’ll be at the club first thing tomorrow so you can show me around.”
He looks down for a bit, then into the distance. “I don’t get there till ten on Saturday.”
He doesn’t want me near his business. I get it. I totally get it. I don’t want to be anywhere near it either. However, thanks to Rowdy, we don’t have a choice.
“Then I’ll see you at ten. The faster we do this, the faster I’ll be out of your way and I can get back home.”
He pins me with a strange look and again I have to wonder what his problem is. I’m the one with the hangover. “Do you want your truck back?
“Keep it…just don’t slash the leather seats.” I can’t even muster a smile, the pulsing ache behind my eyes won’t let me. “You have a headache?”
“You could say that.” Either that, or someone is using my head for soccer practice.
“So you’re going for a run?”
He wipes his face with the edge of the white towel, missing the water clinging to his thick black lashes. And out of nowhere, my mind floods with old images of us, intimate ones. Heat scorches my neck and cheeks, which subsequently makes me scowl, frown, and everything in between. This is why I can’t be around him. He makes me unstable. I’m emoji faces to the power of ten.
“Maren––”
“No rest for the weary,” I grunt, avoiding eye contact.
He reaches over, and before I can stop him, lifts my sunglasses and sets them on top of my head. Then he ducks down to examine my eyes as if all the answers to the universe are hidden there.
The space between us shrinks to nothing. He’s barely a few inches away. Too close, way too close. My heart starts to race and my breath gets heavy.
“Stop. The sun is killing me,” I hiss, even though the sun has nothing to do with why I’m suddenly a heavy breather.
I bat his hands away, fumble with the glasses, and push them back down taking half the hair that was in a neat ponytail with them. My hair is sticking up in every direction. I can’t win today.
“You look like shit. Go home and sleep it off.”
My back snaps straight and the temperature between us tanks. It’s easily ninety degrees and we may as well be standing in a freaking meat locker.
“Is that your official diagnosis, Dr. Douchebag?”
It really shouldn’t surprise me that we didn’t make it. I can’t think of many couples that do. Sonny and Cher. Crash and burn. Siegfried and Roy? We all know how that ended. Simon and Garfunkel. Garfunkel quickly faded into obscurity after Simon left him. I’m Simon in this scenario naturally. I need to get away from him before he turns me into Garfunkel. I will not allow him to Garfunkel me.
