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Neither of us moves, and I wait until the whir of the automatic garage door stops, leaving us in dark silence. “Is something going on with you?” I finally ask.
“No.”
He opens the truck door and climbs out. I inhale for patience, waiting until he goes into the house before getting out of the car myself. His response is no less than I expected. He’s not a talker. But I know I’m right. He’s been acting different—just slightly. In ways only a best friend who lives next door would know.
I’m patient with Mark’s quirks. He’s patient with mine. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t getting to a boiling point with him. He and I always harp on each other a little, but this hot/cold thing we’ve been doing isn’t like us.
He’s never been Mr. Chatty, but neither does he usually just walk away in the middle of a conversation, and he’s done that a few times lately. And while he’s always protective, he doesn’t usually storm my dates.
I should go home. He’s not in a mood to talk. Clearly. Pushing him won’t work, and yet…
I shove open the door to his house, and instead of (wisely) going out the back door to my own house, I go from room to room looking for him.
He’s not downstairs. Hearing a thump upstairs, I head that way. Rigby wags at me from the top of the stairs, and I set my purse down, taking time to greet the dog on the landing and deliver a good belly rub before going to confront my best friend.
Mark’s in his bathroom, brushing his teeth. He’s already changed for bed, dressed in a tight-fitting white undershirt and blue flannel pants slung low on his hips.
When I glance back up, he meets my eyes in the mirror, seemingly resigned to my presence.
He spits and rinses, and after putting his toothbrush back in the holder he turns to face me. “What?”
“You know what.”
He says nothing.
I cross my arms. “You’re being a jerk. You shut down every time I try to talk to you, you’re punching people and won’t even tell me why, and then in between all that you’re nice, and I don’t…I don’t…”
“What? You don’t what?” His eyes are stormy and unreadable.
I blow out a breath. “It’s Christmas, Mark. It’s not the time to be pissy.”
He lets out a little laugh and runs a hand over the back of his neck. “I’m not being pissy.”
“You are, a little,” I say with a smile. “Is it Erika? Are you…thinking of rekindling things with her again? Is that why you punched Doug now, after all this time?”
Rigby barges into the bathroom with a bone in his mouth, and Mark looks down at the dog, leaning down to give him a pat when Rigby presses against his shins.
“I’ve had stuff with the restaurant on my mind,” he says finally, not looking at me. “I’ve been wanting for months to pull back, to be less hands-on and let my staff grow. It’s harder than I expected.”
I soften a little, relieved to have gotten something out of him. Maybe relieved, too, that he didn’t mention Erika’s name. Although neither did he answer my question about whether they were rekindling things. And Erika works at the restaurant, which could mean…
“I’m sorry,” I say, leaning against the doorjamb. “I know it’s your baby. Letting go is hard, even if it’s for the best for everyone.”
“Yeah.”
Rigby rolls onto his back, and it’s Mark’s turn to give his belly a rub, the dog’s stub of a tail going crazy at the attention.
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“Want to get your mind off it?” I ask.
His head snaps up. “Meaning?”
I blink in surprise at his intensity. “I just mean that I’m going into the city tomorrow. Doing a little last-minute shopping. I still have to get Christmas gifts for my parents. And for you. I could use the company.”
I expect him to say no. Mark hates Manhattan. He hates shopping even more. Instead he stands and considers. “There is a new restaurant in the East Village I’ve been wanting to check out. It’ll be hard to get reservations last minute, but I know the guy—he might be able to squeeze us in, if only at the bar.”
“Well, this works out perfectly,” I say, giving an excited little clap. “I actually have dinner plans, and you’ll have better luck squeezing in at the bar if it’s just you, and—”
