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Are you still going to tell yourself that’s why you did this?
Perhaps that wasn’t the only reason I’d done it, but it didn’t have to be the most important one.
Right?
I looked at my watch, pleased to see I was three minutes early. At least having today’s meeting at the house would ensure Nick couldn’t be late to that. Probably. I still wasn’t sure why his rather malleable idea of punctuality still bothered me so, even after all the years we’d had together. Maybe it wasn’t that he was late sometimes; instead, I’d realized that over the years it had been, in my mind, a reflection of him not really caring as much—about me. I knew that that was probably not very fair, and maybe even a little anal. But it was true, nonetheless.
What I’d wanted from Nick was steadiness, reliability, a sense that he would always be there when I needed him to be there. Punctuality played into that, of course, and even though it was a minor thing, it still inexorably undermined—if only in my heart—that sense that he would always be there for me. No matter what.
“You’re dragging this out, Eva. Go inside.” I shook my head at myself, strolling up the walkway leading to the front door. The two steps up to the porch were just the same as I’d remembered them, the same sound of my heels clacking upon the risers. The stained wood of the plank of stoop was solid, the smell of it just as I’d remembered. I knocked on the door, noting that he’d cleaned everything off the porch; there’d once been a wrought iron framed wooden bench there. I often come outside in the early morning nursing my coffee, checking my emails. Looking at the place where the bench used to be was like looking at the ghostly shadow cast in my mind’s eye, the remnant of the marriage that was—but whose presence was merely a memory now.
As I rapped on the metal of the door again, I realized that the front entry itself was new. The old maroon one with the stained-glass sidelights and the window high up had been replaced. Now, it only a simple, white-painted steel door to take its place. Very male.
I was about to knock a third time when the door swung wide. “Hi.” Nick stood in the doorway, one elbow on the edge of the door. He wore only a simple white T-shirt and a pair of faded and torn blue jeans. The smell of soap was strong, clean, and his hair was still wet—which meant he’d probably just stepped out of the shower. I didn’t like how good he looked. I didn’t like it one bit.
Stop thinking with your pussy.
But seeing him that day just brought it all back, the connection that I could no longer deny was still very much there between us. Before I’d come back for this crazy gambit that we were on, I’d been convinced that any feeling for him was simply…gone. That I wanted to end it. That while I could still see the good in the man whom I intended would soon be my ex-husband, there was a lot more still going on. Far more profound issues that had to be resolved—if they even could be.
The past few days had ensured that despite how resolute I’d been to get this over with, to put it behind me, he’d managed to make me see that maybe it wouldn’t be possible to put this behind me. At least not yet.
“Do you have any coffee? I could really use some coffee…”
He swung the door all the way open, stepping aside to let me in. “I’ll get you a cup. I just made a pot.”
While I wasn’t exactly sure what to expect stepping inside the house that had once been our home, what I hadn’t thought I would see was how little things had changed. The couch was the same— the right front foot, varnished wood, still showing the jagged claw marks from the cat we’d boarded for one of his coworkers for a few days. That had been three years ago.
The place smelled different, more masculine, the scents I liked to use in the house vanished now. In their place, well, it smelled basically like…Nick. And that wasn’t a bad thing at all.
This isn’t helping, Eva.
Nick returned with a steaming mug, the matte vanilla color faded and chipped in places, a single word embossed upon the side in black block lettering:
MINE.
It had been one of Nick’s favorite mugs, back when we still had time to drink coffee together. Those days were over though.
“You’re not having any?” I held up my cup, tilting it slightly toward him. “I can barely function this early without coffee. I don’t know how you do it.”
Rather than say anything though, he turned on his heel, and for the first time I noticed he was barefoot. That didn’t help either, a barefoot man in jeans being something I’d always found surprisingly attractive. I wondered if perhaps Nick remembered that too.
Don’t flatter yourself.
He sat down on the couch, drumming his fingers upon the cushion next to him, his left arm laid upon the end, long fingers gripping the cushion there. He watched me silently, his expression neutral, completely unreadable.
“What?” I didn’t like the peevishness in my voice, but I definitely didn’t like the fact he was staring at me and not saying a single word either. It made me nervous, but not in the sense of danger; rather, it made me wonder what it was he was up to. Because if Nick had accomplished one thing so far this week, it had definitely been in surprising me. Repeatedly.
“Are we going to just stand here, and act like yesterday didn’t actually happen?”
I sniffed, taking a sip, wincing at the hot liquid nearly burning my lower lip. “What exactly did happen yesterday? I mean it wasn’t exactly something Dennis told us was part of the plan, now was it?”
“I don’t want to talk about Dennis right now. What I do want to talk about, is why you’re avoiding the subject. Something happened yesterday, Eva, and I want to talk about it.”
I sighed, taking a seat at the opposite end of the couch, crossing my legs, my black slacks whispering together, the open toe heels my only overt concession to a modicum of sexy appeal. “So, let’s talk. Because I’ve got a few things I want to say too.”
“You first,” he muttered.
Damn it.
