“I know.” I flushed, looking over at Carrie. How was I supposed to handle this, holding her husband’s hand in the middle of the coffee shop while she watched? She didn’t seem to care and he didn’t seem to care. Why was it such a big deal for me?
“I'm sorry I make you uncomfortable,” he prompted.
“It's not you, it's...” I pulled my hand away gently, reaching for my bag. “It's the whole situation.”
Doc leaned his elbows on the table, his gaze steady, curious. “Is there anything I can do to fix it?”
“I gotta go.”
I escaped out into the cold, not looking back. The walk home was long and I trudged the whole way, knowing Mason wouldn’t be there for hours. He’d said five but I didn't expect him until six and he didn't actually arrive until seven. I heard the putter of his moped out back while I was finishing up a Lean Cuisine—oriental chicken. I quickly dumped the tray in the garbage and tossed my fork in the sink, nudging Jezebel out of the way to open the back door.
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“Hey.” He tucked his helmet under his arm, unzipping his jacket. He looked good.
He always looked good. It made my chest hurt.
“Hi.” I waved him in and shut the door, joining him at the kitchen table. “So what's up?”
I knew it was something. He never called, and if he showed up, it was always unannounced, sneaking in and out of the apartment like thief. When he left me a stiff message on the machine saying, “We need to talk,” I knew I had to be on my guard.
And I was.
He put his helmet on the table, leaning back in his chair. “I've been thinking about this Italy thing.”
I stiffened, prepared, but for what, I wasn’t quite sure. “And?”
“I can't go with you.”
I nodded. This was nothing new. “Okay.”
“But I don't want you to go.” He worked the strap on his helmet nervously. Snap, unsnap. Snap, unsnap.
“Now we're right back where we started.”
“I know.” Snap, unsnap. “There has to be a way to fix this.”
I shook my head, nudging Jezebel under the table with my foot. She was purring, heading for Mason, getting ready to say hello. “We've been saying that for over a year.
Long before my going to Italy was even a question.”
He lifted his gaze to mine. “We could try therapy again.”
“We didn't do anything but fight in therapy.” I was just pointing out the obvious.
The guy his parents had paid for hadn’t done either of us much good. He had an office 72
that smelled like patchouli and sat in a chair that squeaked every time he shifted in it.
Mason and I sat on an equally squeaky brown leather couch while the therapist nodded and asked, “How did that make you feel?” every time we said something. It felt useless, like talking to a mirror.
Mason tried a smile. “At least we were talking.”
“Yelling,” I countered.
He tried again. “Communicating.”
I snorted. “I don't know if I'd call that communicating.”
“What if we got back with each other? If we moved in together again?”
“Do you want to?” That suggestion took me aback. I sat and contemplated it, having Mason back here. What would that be like? What would we be like together?
The memory of him in my bed was too close.
He reached across the table and took my hand. “I want you.”
“I want you too.” It was barely a whisper. I looked down at his hand covering mine and knew it was true. I’d always wanted him, even when I convinced myself I didn’t. But the gap between us was much wider than the expanse of the kitchen table, and I wasn’t sure it was so easily bridged.
“Let me back in.” He didn’t beg or plead, but I heard the longing in his voice.
“It's your house too. More, really, since your parents pay for it.” I brought it up like a shield to put between us. It was a sore point, one of those things we’d always argued about, even before Isabella.
“That's not what I mean.” He sighed. “The other day, we were...it was almost like before.”
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I swallowed, shaking my head. “It will never be like before, ever again.”
“I want to fix it.” Now he really was pleading. I didn’t look up, didn’t want to see if the emotion choking his voice was in his eyes. “That's all I want. I want to turn the fucking clock back. I want her back. I want you back.”
I pulled my hand slowly away, leaving his alone clenched in a fist in the middle of the table. “It's not possible.”
“You think I don't know that?” he choked. “You think I don't spend every minute of every day hating myself for not being able to save her? Save you?”