“
I am so proud of you, baby.”
Beau Sr. stepped over and planted a kiss on Beauji
’
s head. There were tears in his eyes. He grabbed her other hand and pulled it
to his lips. “
My baby had a baby.”
Davey
’
s arm came up around my shoulders. “
Don
’
t you start crying, too,”
he said, knocking his head
lightly
against mine. I swiped at my face.
“
Too late,”
I said, trying to smile despite the fact that I hated the reason I
was crying. I leaned over and gave Beauji a kiss on the cheek.
“
You get some rest. I
’
ll come back tomorrow to visit with you and...”
I blinked and laughed. “
Hey, what
’
d you name him, anyway?”
Beauji looked up at her father and grinned. “
Miles. Miles David
Chapman.”
The first thing I noticed when I opened the door to my apartment was the smell. Something was cooking. Chicken?
My eyes adjusted to the dimness. The place was littered with candles. Something was all over the floor and the couch and the furnitur
e.
Rose petals?
Oh, God.
“
You
’
re home!”
Peter, wearing an apron, popped up in the kitchenette where he
’
d been rummaging in the cupboards below the counter. “
Did Beauji have the baby?”
He was acting like nothing was wrong, like he didn
’
t propose only to be
ignored and avoided for a week. He
’
d been hanging with the Mizzes for too long.
“
Yeah. Boy. Miles David.”
Peter smiled. “
Great. I figured
you'd
be tired after being at the hospital all day
—
Davey called your mom to tell her
—
so I...”
He motioned behind him,
then gave me a sheepish look. “
I hope you don
’
t mind.”
I sighed. I was hungry, and whatever he was cooking smelled good.
“
I should mind,”
I said, plopping myself down on the couch. “
But I
’
m too tired.”
“
Glass of wine?”
he asked.
I shrugged. “
Sure. Why not?
”
Peter poured us each a glass of chilled chardonnay and sat down next to me. I took a sip and lolled my head back on the couch. “
What are you doing, Peter?”
He grinned. “
Trying to win you back.”
“
I
’
m not a carnival goldfish.”
“
I know that.”
He leaned forw
ard, his elbows resting on his knees as he looked into his wineglass. “
And I know it might be hopeless. But I have to try or I will know I never tried.”
He brought his eyes up to meet mine. I felt it, a small flicker of something that once was. I took a si
p of wine to dampen it.
“
So, what
’
s cooking?”
I asked.
“
Vera
’
s lemon chicken,”
he said.
I eyed him suspiciously. “
My favorite.”
He smiled. “
I know.”
“
The Mizzes have been schooling you, have they?”
He shrugged. “
I like them.”
“
And you
’
re all conspiring aga
inst me?”
His smile faded. “
Not against you. We all want you to be happy.”
I narrowed my eyes at him but held on to a small smile. “
Well, your timing is great. I
’
m weak and tired. You may stay for dinner, but only because you cooked it, and then you leave.
”
He raised his glass and clinked it to mine. “
Deal.”
Any idiot could have seen it coming; any idiot except me, that is. But between the wine, the exhaustion, and the residual comfort from times gone by, I was taken completely by surprise when, within an h
our of finishing the meal, I found myself making out with Peter frat-party style on my couch.
“
Wait,”
I said, pushing him away as his hand went under my shirt. I popped up off the couch and held out my hands, channeling Diana Ross. “
Wait.”
Peter leaned bac
k and put his arm over his eyes. “
I
’
m sorry.”
“
No, you
’
re not,”
I said. “
This is exactly what you wanted.”
He pulled his arm down and sat forward. “
That
’
s not true.
I mean, well...yeah, it
’
s true. But how you feel matters more to me. I don
’
t want to pressu
re you.”
“
Oh, really?”
I threw up my arms, gesturing around the room. “
So what
’
s this? Breaking into my apartment, covering it with candles and rose petals, cooking me dinner, plying me with wine? What is that if not pressure?”
“
Technically, I didn
’
t break
in. Mags gave me a key.”
I ground my teeth. “
You
’
re not doing yourself any favors by bringing Mags into this, Peter.”
Peter ran his hands down his thighs and stood up. “
You
’
re right. I
’
m sorry. I ambushed you. That was totally unfair.”
“
Don
’
t sell me this
crap about fair and unfair,”
I said. “
It
’
s not about that. It
’
s about you. What
’
s with you, Peter? Who are you, Peter? Because it
’
s for damn sure that in the two years we were living together, you never once called Aunt Vera to get the recipe for my favo
r
ite chicken.”
“
Maybe I
’
ve changed,”
he said quietly.
“
Maybe,”
I said. We stood in a checkmate for a minute, then Peter stepped closer. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them, his mouth was just an inch from mine. I could feel the heat from his body drawi
ng me in closer, until we were touching. His hand settled on my hip. His lips brushed mine.
And we were on the couch again.
I deserve this
, I thought as his hands cupped my breasts, his fingers running lightly over the nipples and making a surge run throug
h me.
I deserve to be touched and held and loved. I deserve a goddamn orgasm.
“
Stop,”
I said, pushing him back again. “
Stop. I can
’
t think. I
can't
...”
He reached up and touched my face. “
Don
’
t think. Don
’
t worry. We
’
ll go only as far
as you want to, and if you decide tomorrow that it was all a mistake and you want no part of me, I
’
ll accept that.”
He leaned into me and nibbled on my collarbone. That
’
s the thing about exes. They know all your weak spots.
I let out a breath and tried to
will my heart rate to slow down. “
I don
’
t have anything,”
I said. “
I mean, protection.”
He smiled, his hands working the button on my jeans, slowly unzipping them. “
There are some things for which you don
’
t need protection.”
He dipped into my collarbone ag
ain, and did something with his tongue that told me exactly what he was thinking.
“
But what about you?”
I gasped.
He kissed a trail down my neck, over my breasts. “
Don
’
t worry about me.”
I deserve this
, I thought
. He
’
ll go away afterward if I tell him. He
said so. I deserve this.
As he slipped my panties off and lowered his face between my legs, I closed my eyes.
And thought of someone else.
Chapter Nine
“
My feelings...they are so different,”
Elizabeth said, her hands tucked behind her as she walked with
Darcy. A smile tipped the corners of her mouth. “
In fact, they are quite the opposite.”
I popped a cigarette into my mouth, squinting my left eye as a trail of smoke assaulted it, and reached for the remote. I paused the video on Darcy
’
s understated expre
ssion of joy and relief as he realized that Elizabeth finally loved him back. I took a long drag on the cigarette, then put it out in the ashtray, where it joined the stubby remainders of six of its little friends. I flicked my finger over the touch pad o
n
my laptop, banishing the annoying bouncing-ball screen saver to virtual purgatory. My dissertation was exactly as I
’
d left it in February, forty pages of single-spaced crap ending with a hanging sentence I
’
d left unfinished.
The frequent borrowing of Aust
en
’
s plotlines to fuel modern literature points…
I remembered having the thought, remembered getting a phone call in the middle of it, going back to my laptop, and realizing I
’
d forgotten where I was headed, then shutting the computer down, figuring I
’
d ge
t to it the next day. The next day, however, had been Valentine
’
s Day, the day Peter left, and I hadn
’
t touched the dissertation since.
I refilled my wineglass from the half-empty bottle of chardonnay sitting on the coffee table. I squinted at the time on
the VCR.
11:15.
In the morning.
I sighed and reached for my cigarettes. I
’
d smoked briefly during my sophomore year at Georgia State, but gave it up before the end of the spring semester. I hated the panic I
’
d felt when the pack was almost done. I figured
it was better to live without them than to deal with the constant stress of wondering when I
’
d get my next fix. And then there was the 'whole cancer thing to boot.
After Peter left the night before, after I
’
d opened my eyes wanting to see one face and bein
g presented with another, I
’
d gone out and gotten three packs, a glass ashtray, four lighters, and two bottles of wine. It may not be ideal to crave nicotine, but at least in that case I
’
d know exactly what I wanted and exactly how to get it, which wasn
’
t
happening in any other area of my life.
I blazed up the lighter, watched the end of the cigarette flare up and glow orange. I inhaled.
Ah.
I had opened the windows to clear out some of the smoke, but the shades were drawn, muting the daylight and giving th
e room an orange glow. I picked up the remote and hit REWIND, sending Darcy and Elizabeth back to mid-walk. I hit PLAY. Darcy turned to Elizabeth, his face tortured with love and angst.
“
You are too generous a person to trifle with me. Tell me, if your fee
lings are the same as they were last April, I will never say another word on the subject. My feelings are unchanged.”
My chest tightened at Darcy
’
s anguished face. At his obvious love. At his blatant intention to stick.
Forever.
I picked up the remote and
hit the power button, shutting off the television. That was enough of the sexy Brit.