“You know how in romantic comedies there’s usually some stupid situation that arises that could be resolved without all the drama if the couple just had a conversation? Like, just sat down and hashed the problem out? I feel like that’s the deal with us. Like if you would just…I don’t know, write down what I did that irritated you to the point of looking at me like you want to slam a dog poo pie into my face, then maybe I could apologize, or not do whatever that thing is again, and we could go on and have a decent working relationship while the house is under construction and not have to tiptoe around each other because there’s this huge black cloud of animosity following us around. You know?”
He doesn’t know. I can tell because he looks as if he’s about to puke, and his hands are curled so tightly around the steering wheel, it’s in danger of snapping in half.
“Never mind. Forget I mentioned it. Honestly, it’s your prerogative to dislike whomever you want. I’m just being sensitive. No, scratch that, I’m not being sensitive! Any other rational person would feel the same way! Nobody likes to be disliked!”
Theo’s swallow is audible, and now I feel like an idiot.
I sigh and drag my hands through my hair. “I’m going to be quiet now.”
We drive for a while in silence until we come to a stop sign. I shiver in my seat, rubbing my hands over my arms for warmth. Seeing that I’m cold, Theo shrugs out of his jacket and hands it over to me.
“Oh. Thank you.” I drape it over my front like a blanket, enjoying its warmth and trying not to start laughing because this is so weird and I’m so uncomfortable and I only have two knee-jerk reactions when I’m feeling awkward: laughter or sarcasm.
We start driving again, then it’s only a few more turns until we’re at my house. He pulls into the driveway, shuts off the car, and gets out. Before I can open my door, he’s opened it for me. He holds out his hand.
So he’s a gentleman psychopath who hates my guts. Noted.
I allow him to help me out of the car. When I hand him his coat, he takes it, but instead of putting it on, he settles it over my shoulders. Then, like an old-fashioned suitor, he takes my arm and leads me up the path to the front porch, holding aside a thorny branch from one of the wild rosebushes so I don’t get whacked by it as I pass by.
This is so confusing.
He pauses at the bottom of the porch steps, but this time, I’m not inviting him inside. I slide his jacket off and hand it back to him with a murmured “Thank you,” then turn to go into the house.
Theo stops me with a touch on my elbow. Surprised, I turn back to him. He reaches into his coat. I think he’s going to remove his writing pad, but instead, he takes out a business card. He hands it to me, his eyes shining like gems in the low light.
“Um. Thanks.” I stand there for a moment, unsure of what to do next, until he points at the card. “Yes, I have your number. I’ll call you Monday, no matter what I decide.”
He shakes his head like I don’t understand what he’s trying to say. Which, naturally, I don’t. “You don’t want me to call you Monday?”
I swear his eye roll is sarcastic.
He pulls his jacket on, takes the card in one hand, and with the other points to his email address on the bottom. He taps it three times.
“You want me to email you instead?”
This time his head shake is a hard jerk. I can tell he’s getting frustrated. He makes a rolling motion of his hand, but I have no idea what he means.
“Oh, for God’s sake, Theo, cut me a break, will you? I suck at charades.”
He gives me back the card, then whips out his little notepad. He scratches something on it and holds it out for me to see.
You can email me before Monday if you want to talk.
When I look up at him, he drops the pad to his side and stares at me. That muscle is jumping in his jaw again. His eyes are unnaturally bright, as if he’s running a fever.
“Do you want to talk?”
He looks away, draws a breath, closes his eyes. Then he looks back at me. He nods—then shakes his head.
“Yes and no.”
He nods again, because I’ve interpreted him correctly.
“Well, hell, Theo,” I say, irritated. “Make up your damn mind.”
His lips curve upward. He covers his mouth with his hand to hide his smile, then clears his throat.
It’s a startling sound, because it’s a sound. I stare at him, breathless, my pulse picking up pace until it’s zooming.
He doesn’t notice my sudden stillness. He just nods—three times, so I can’t mistake his meaning—then turns around and walks back to his car. He gets in and drives away without a backward glance.