(Dream Man 03) Law Man(14)

“Some other time,” I whispered, whirled, turned my doorknob and flew into my house, slamming my door.

I wished I didn’t slam my door but I couldn’t help it. My momentum was such I couldn’t stop it. Then I ran to my oven and turned it off. Then to my bedroom where I changed clothes and shoes, grabbed my bag. I checked my peephole and listened, opening my door a crack to look. When I saw the coast was clear, I ran into the breezeway, down the stairs and to my car.

I took off and I wasn’t home in fifteen minutes. I wasn’t home after an hour. I went to Cherry Creek Mall and bought a ticket for a movie that started in an hour and a half. I got myself a pretzel for dinner. I kicked around in a few stores not seeing anything, not allowing myself to feel much of anything and then I watched the movie.

I didn’t get home until late.

Even so, I’d barely walked in and turned on the lights when I heard the knock on my door. I closed my eyes and went to the door, looking through the peephole.

It was Mitch.

God.

I put my forehead to the door and stood there, not moving. He knocked again. I still didn’t move.

“Mara open the door,” his deep voice called.

God!

I moved, opened the door a bit and stood in it.

“Hey,” I said and the minute my eyes hit him, I again felt like crying.

They needed to separate the zones. Mandatory boundaries. Ones to Threes got Canada (because there were a lot of us and we needed the space). Fours to Sixes got the US. The fewer numbered Sevens to Tens got the sultry, tropical beauty of Mexico. If they separated us, things like this wouldn’t happen and therefore hurt like this wouldn’t be felt.

“Can I come in?” he asked.

“It’s late,” I answered.

His whole face warmed. God, he was beautiful.

“Sweetheart let me in,” he said gently.

He was also nice. So nice. Why did that suck? Why couldn’t he be one of those arrogant Ten Plusses? Sure, if he was, it might knock him down to an Eight but he’d still be an Eight and out of my league.

“Mitch, it’s really late.”

He studied me. Then he nodded.

I thought I was off the hook but then he said, “Does your pizza keep?”

I blinked at him. “Pardon?”

He asked a different question. “Did you eat it?”

“Um… no,” I answered.

“Does it keep?”

“I think so,” I told him though I didn’t know. I made it. I baked it. I ate it. I’d never tested to see if it would keep in raw form prior to baking.

“Tomorrow night. Seven thirty. I’ll be back.”

My breath left me.

When I sucked some back in, I told him quietly, “You don’t have to do this.”

His brows drew together and he replied, “I know that. What I don’t know is why you’d think I’d think I do.”

There was no way I was going to explain it to him especially since I knew he knew, he was just being nice, so instead I said, “I’m just saying.”

“What?” he asked when I said no more. I didn’t respond so he continued, “What are you just saying?”

“I’m saying you don’t have to do this.”

He started to look impatient before he said, “Mara, let me in.”

“I’m tired and I need to work tomorrow.”

“I’m thinkin’ we need to talk right now.”

I shook my head. “There’s nothing to say. I should have maybe slipped you a note or something to tell you when I’d be over. I’m sorry that I put you in that –”

He cut me off, definitely impatient, “Mara, just let me in.”

“Mitch, really. Sundays are crazy at work. I need to sleep.”

“That wasn’t what you thought it was,” he told me.

I shook my head again. “There’s no need to explain.”

“Jesus, Mara, just let me in.”

“I’ll knock on your door next time, leave you a note, give you a warning, make sure you’re free.”

“Mara –”

I stepped away from the door and started closing it, “’Night, Mitch.”

“Damn it, Mara.”

I closed the door, locked it and ran to my room, closing that door too.

Then I got in my nightgown, slid into my bed and finally let myself cry.

A long time later, when I was done, I wiped my face, got out of bed, went to my open plan living room-slash-kitchen-slash-dining area and turned out the lights.

Then I went back to bed. Alone.

Like many Ones to Threes did every night.





Chapter Three

Messes





It was a week after the Mitch Incident.

My candles were lit and I was lying on my couch listening to my Chill Out at Home Premier Edition, the first of the Chill Out playlists I’d created. Al Green was singing “How Can You Mend a Broken Heart” and I was doing nothing but listening to him sing and drinking a glass of red wine.