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“Damn,” he shouts, and hangs up.
Damn you, too, I think, quietly replacing the receiver.
I retrieve my own Hartmann suitcase from under Samantha’s bed. The phone rings some more, but I know better than to answer it.
After a while, the caller gives up. Then the buzzer goes off. “Yes?” I ask brusquely, into the intercom.
“It’s Ryan,” comes back the garbled reply.
I click open the door. Ryan. I’m working myself up to give him what-for about Maggie, when he appears at the top of the stairs holding a lone rose. The stem is limp and I briefly wonder if he picked it up off the street.
“You’re too late,” I say accusingly. “Maggie left last night.”
“Rats. I knew I fucked up.”
I should probably tell him to go away, but I’m not finished. “Who runs out of a diner while their date is in the bathroom?”
“I was tired,” he says helplessly, as if this is a legitimate excuse.
“You’re kidding. Right?”
He gives me a hangdog look. “I couldn’t figure out how to say good-bye. I was exhausted. And I’m not Superman. I try to be, but somewhere along the line I seem to have encountered kryptonite.”
I smile in spite of myself. Ryan is one of those guys who can always joke himself out of the bad books. I know he knows it, and I know it’s disloyal, but I can’t stay mad at him. After all, he didn’t stand me up.
“Maggie was really, really hurt,” I scold.
“I figured she would be. That’s why I came by. To make it up to her.”
“With that rose?”
“It is pretty sad, isn’t it?”
“It’s pathetic. Especially since she took her anger out on me.”
“On you?” He’s surprised. “Why would she take it out on you? It wasn’t your fault.”
“No. But somehow I got lumped in with your bad behavior. We got into a fight.”
“Was there hair pulling?”
“No, there was not,” I say, indignant. “Jesus, Ryan.”
“I’m sorry.” He grins. “Guys love girl fights. What can I say?”
“Why don’t you just admit you’re an asshole?”
“Because that would be too easy. Capote’s an asshole. I’m just a jerk.”
“Nice way to talk about your best friend.”
“Just because we’re friends doesn’t mean I have to lie about his personality,” he says.
“I suppose that’s true,” I unwillingly agree, wondering why women are so judgmental of each other. Why can’t we say, “Hey, she’s kind of messed up, but I love her anyway?”
“I came by to ask Maggie to Rainbow’s father’s art opening. It’s tonight. There’s a dinner afterward. It’s going to be really cool.”
“I’ll go,” I volunteer, wondering why no one invites me to these glamorous parties.
