David and I walk down Wood Street and into a parking garage. He keeps his arm around my waist the entire time but doesn’t say a word. I can hear him breathing as we walk, and an image of a fire-breathing dragon pops into my head. I can tell he is angry. I can tell because of his silence. Because of the way he is breathing. Because of the rigidity in the arm that is wrapped around me. But he can’t be that angry, right? Otherwise he wouldn’t be here. It’s bullshit.
“Tell me what you’re so mad about.” I say as we walk down the rows of cars.
“Mad?” he questions, an eerie calm in his voice. He stops in the middle of the lane, disconnects from my waist, and looks at me quizzically. “You think I’m mad?”
“Yes, I do,” Does this mean that he isn’t mad? If this isn’t anger I’m sensing, what is it? “Look, if it’s because of the shoe thing, I’m sorry. I didn’t know my joke was going to end in warfare. I thought he would do what he promised he would. I thought he would give you the shoe and my message and be done with it. You can’t be pissed off at me because your friend decided to be a dick.”
“My friend didn’t decide to be a dick, Emma. He’s always a dick. They all are. I told you that already. And I’m not fucking mad about the shoe. I enjoyed wiping the floor with Brad. It was a long time coming. Whatever message you gave him never made it to me. He called a bet with your shoe, dropped it on the poker table, and told me you were one hell of a screw. I though he stole it from your place the other day. What was I supposed to do?” He really isn’t angry about it. In fact, he’s quite relaxed.
I, on the other hand, am anything but relaxed. “That fucking asshole,” I say bitterly. “I am going to run him over with his own goddamned lawnmower the next time I see him.” Now I am the dragon, and if I knew where Brad lived, I would burn his fucking house down right now. I can feel the swell of rage boil up under my skin. It makes me wish I had someone to hit.
“Ah, so that’s how you met him,” David says. “Now I get it.”
“You might not be pissed off about this, but I sure as shit am,” I sneer. “I was feeling guilty as hell about the guy getting beat up, but now, now I want to punch his teeth out myself.” I think David is a little startled at the extent of my anger. He takes a small step backwards and puts on a tiny, sideways grin. I forgot how much he enjoys seeing me angry.
Then something else strikes me. “Wait,” I add, “if he didn’t give you my message about needing the shoe back this morning, then why the hell were you sleeping on my floor last night?”
“Look, I had just beat the living shit out of one of my best friends because of you. I was shit-faced, Emma, and I needed to see you.”
“And?” I ask, the pounding in my veins waning.
“And you were doing the whole rock-sleeping thing, and I knew you had to work today, and I didn’t want you to be pissed off at me for waking you up. So I just lay down on your floor, and that is that.”
“Oh,” I say awkwardly.
“But then, I spend the whole day today feeling like an ass for passing out on your floor and wanting to text you but feeling like I can’t because you are at work. And when I finally get to see you, you come out of the fucking building wearing those heels and looking like that—but you are surrounded by four other men.” So this is what his silence and rigidity were about. “I wanted my victory parade, Emma. But instead, I got to see you with the men you spend nine hours a day with, and maybe I am a little mad. Well, not mad really, more jealous. But I hate jealousy. I don’t do jealousy. Ever. Look, I know I gave you that whole goddamned speech about it the other day, but I don’t think I can help it. I guess I’m angry at myself for feeling that way.” He’s saying the words with great conviction, yet his voice isn’t hurried or heated. It’s as if he has thought them out and practiced them very carefully.
“Jesus, David.” I want to smile at him, but I don’t want him to think that I am laughing at his words. It’s just that the thought of someone like him having those feelings because of me seems ridiculous. And unbelievable.
“I’ll try to keep it in check, Emma. Really I will.”
But that’s not what I want.
“I don’t want you to keep it in check,” I say, holding his face and lining up our noses. “I like it. No one has ever wanted to protect me before. No one. And I am happy as shit about it.”
“Oh,” he says, looking very confused. I kiss him, and he weaves his fingers through my hair to the back of my neck. He holds me there, against his mouth, for a long time. My tongue laps against his in a slippery, seductive dance. He pulls his hands out of my hair and picks me up by the ass. I wrap my legs around his waist and press myself against him. He walks with me swathed around him, our lips still together and my bags hanging from my shoulder, until he gets to what must be his car. He sits me up on the trunk and stands between my legs. My skirt has lifted to my hips and I feel exposed, but his body is blocking the view. Our lips eventually separate, but he’s still touching me, touching the tops of my thighs. Rubbing them. Making my body fill with need. I want him to fuck me in this parking garage on top of this car. But when I tell him those words, he steps back with a smirk and tells me to get in the goddamn car. And so I do.