Casanova Cowboy (A Morgan Mallory Story) (35 page)

“It’s hard when she’s my mom and my friend. She’s lost her objectivity because she cares about Ryan.”

“Remind her gently that you have priority over
Ryan,” Luke said.

Blake gave me a smirk
.

“I know
. It’s why you don’t fall in love,” I said sarcastically, climbing back up onto the stool next to him.

“Exactly
,” Blake said.

“Exactly why I wouldn’t go to bed with you too
,” I teased.

Luke
laughed long and hard.

Chapter 44

I didn’t want to be waiting for Ryan to come home from New York, but I knew that I was. In between jobs, I spent a lot of time working out. Being at the gym at least worked off some of my stress. I started interviewing for random jobs, real jobs that would use my degree. Not clear on what I wanted to do, I thought it might help me decide. Mostly I missed my life, the one with Ryan.

I wasn’t completely shocked
when he called me the night he got home from New York. He called from Mom’s house. It felt odd to think he’d confided in her and yet I didn’t know what that meant exactly. I wondered if he was talking about me specifically, or just things in general. I was trying to move on, not rehash the past.

             
“I had to get Bo,” he began. “I thought you might be here.”

             
I knew he would be coming by to get his dog. I had stayed away from Mom’s intentionally for that reason.

             
“No, I’m at home,” I said simply. “How was your trip?”

             
I wasn’t trying to be friendly; I just was trying not to be rude or angry.

             
“It was good to see the family, all the brothers, hang out. The weather was pretty good, not too humid.”

             
His tone was like when we were strictly friends, just very casual, la-la-la, talking about our day and it annoyed me.

             
“Ryan, you said you wanted to talk. Let’s get it over with. What is it you need to say?” I asked.

             
“Not over the phone. I want to take you to dinner,” he said. “We can talk over dinner.”

             
I pulled the phone cord from the kitchen to the small dining table and sat down.

             
“Oh no, I didn’t agree to a date. I agreed to listen,” I said.

             
“I don’t want to talk over the phone,” he objected. “It needs to be in person.”

             
The curiosity was killing me.
What was there left to say?
The whole time he’d been gone, I had tried to figure out what it could be.

             
“Okay, not over the phone,” I said, relenting far too easily. “When do you want to get together?”

             
“Friday night. I’ll pick you up,” he said thankfully.

             
“Fine. What time?”

             
“Seven?” he questioned.

             
“I guess,” I said, angry with myself for relenting.

I obviously hadn’t worked him out of my
heart because it ached when I hung up. The butterfly’s wings felt like they’d been pelted by monsoon rain, heavy and couldn’t move. Three days until Friday, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to get him off my mind.
Damn you, Ryan.
It was like he’d picked off the scab just when it was starting to heal.

             
I wanted to call Mom, but I knew they would sit and talk. She would want to hear all the details of his trip; I had to hope she would call when he left. I turned on the TV and watched some stupid sitcom. I turned it off and tried to read a book. I finally called Liz.

“What is he trying t
o do? Drive me fucking crazy?” I asked angrily.

             
“Nice to hear your voice,” she joked. “And I assume by
he
you mean Ryan.”

             
I sighed and lay down on my bed. Every damn time I looked at the paint and the crown molding I thought of him, he was everywhere.

“
Liz, I am ready to explode. Between my mom and Ryan, it’s making me insane. You know I never thought I would love him. I never thought it would be more than friends, and when it happened, I was blindsided. Then when it didn’t for him, when he moved out, I was even more so. I really thought he’d had feelings for me from the first time we met. I was so hurt,” I said despondently.

“I know you were
. You still are,” Liz agreed.

“Now he wants to talk.
He’s taking me to dinner Friday night. I can’t imagine what he has left to say,” I said. “And I have no idea why I care to hear it.”

“Are you sure you should go?
” Liz asked. “I think, deep down, you hope Ryan has changed his mind, but I think if he had, he would be telling you by now, screaming it over the phone, not like ‘we need to talk’. What the hell is that? I’m afraid you’re hoping for something that won’t be happening.”

My stomach tightened with her words, knowing what she said made sense.

              “Liz, remember that song ‘I’m Not in Love?’
I can’t remember the artist, but it’s from, like, high school days. The singer talks about not being in love and don’t forget it. Do you remember that one?”

She chuckled.

“Yeah I
remember it.”

             
“Okay, so ‘just because he called me up’ doesn’t make me think he’s in love,” I laughed, feeling a jolt through my heart, like an electrical shock.

             
“I want to know your head’s on straight. Let him speak his peace and run back to Tate,” she implored. “I think he sounds like the perfect distraction.”

Liz and I both knew that Tate was a name that went with a face.
Tate represented another choice, as Liz said, he served to remind me that there were other men in the world. Tate and I left it that I might come back. We weren’t keeping in touch, though. Tate had his own wounds to heal, and I knew neither of us was in a hurry for another serious relationship. Tate knew Ryan still had a hold on my heart, and I knew he would want that part gone.

“Shit
, Liz, even if I do decide to go, he’ll probably be hooked up with someone else by then. He’s too good-looking to stay single long,” I said.

             
“You never know,” she said with hope.

             
My phone beeped again, telling me another call was coming in.

             
“My call waiting has beeped a bunch of times, Liz. I hate that. I don’t know why I even have it. It’s probably Mom. She’s been as hurt as I have over this whole breakup. She loves Ryan, so does my Dad. In fact, I think Ryan is the only guy I ever dated that he’s liked,” I said sadly.

             
“Get the call.”

             
I put my hand over my eyes blocking out the light.

             
“Let’s go to the beach tomorrow. I’m not working. We can drink beer and bake in the sun and not talk about boys,” I rushed out.

             
“Call me, I’d be up for that,” she chuckled.

             
I pressed the
hang up
button on the phone to answer the other line.

             
“Hello.”

             
“You must have been on the other line,” Mom said.

             
“I was talking to Liz.”

             
“What’s Liz have to say?”

             
“That I shouldn’t go Friday. that maybe I’m hoping for something that isn’t possible,” I said.

              Mom hadn’t shared much about her conversations with Ryan at my request. She swore she didn’t know anything about what he wanted to say to me. Liz was right; if it was a change of heart, he would have told me already. After a lot of soul searching, I saw Friday night as a chance for him to say he was sorry, sorry things didn’t work out. What Ryan was afraid of from the start had happened; he’d lost a friend. He missed his friend, but there was nothing that could fix it.

             
I wanted our talk over with so I could finally convince Mom that we were through. I told her I couldn’t go back to being his friend, certainly not now anyway. I tried to be cheerful to ease her sadness about the whole mess. She understood that I would get through it. It just wasn’t what she wanted.

             
Friday night finally came, and I was a nervous wreck. I changed my clothes three times and finally decided on a light blue jumpsuit with a white belt and white sandals. It buttoned down the front, and I wore a push-up bra knowing the view would torture Ryan, seeing something he liked, but could no longer have. I smiled, remembering our lovemaking. We had fit so well. Everything about us fit, except the love part.

I fini
shed getting ready and poured a glass of wine, hoping one might take the edge off. I was nervous and edgy, pacing, checking myself in the mirror, wishing Brad were here and had some blow and I could just get stupid, forget a talk. I had become cynical about love again, not believing. The breakup opened my eyes, and the more I looked at the whole love thing, the less I saw. I was dissecting various relationships in my head, how love had failed, when the doorbell rang. It felt strange for him to come here and not just come in. His key still sat on the shelf where he left it, prompting memories of the day I’d come home and every piece of him was gone.

When
I opened the door and saw him standing there, I had to remind myself to breathe. I looked into his blue eyes, and despite all my efforts, I could feel the emotion, could feel the butterflies flapping, drying off their wings. He smiled. I pictured the morning I spent on the lake, the sunrise, how the sun spread across the smooth dark water and looked so beautiful—it felt like that. The love I still felt spreading slowly through me.

“Come in
,” I said nervously.

             
Ryan had on his normal attire: jeans, a coral button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and his cowboy boots. I wondered whose bedroom they had been in lately. His hair was longer again, the blond streaks back.

             
“You look nice,” I said, coming back to his eyes.

             
“So do you,” he said, as he took a quick peek at my boobs. “Are you ready?”

             
“Yeah, ready,” I said, getting my purse and my jean jacket.

             
Hell no, I’m not ready!
I didn’t feel ready; I’d spent hours worrying about this talk.

             
“Where are we going?” I asked when we got in his van.

             
“Croce’s restaurant. It’s downtown. Remember Jim Croce, the singer? I read a review that says it’s good, has live music.”

             
I could picture the singers face on an album cover I’d owned, dark curly hair, mustache. “I Have to Say I Love You in a Song”
popped into my head, one of my favorite Jim Croce songs.

             
“I remember him,” I said. “Sad he died so young. A plane crash, right?”

             
“It was,” Ryan answered.

             
My nervousness increased the closer we got to downtown. I worried about what he wanted to say. What we could possibly talk about through an entire meal.

Thank god w
e were seated at a table by the window where we could observe people on the street outside. If things got tense, at least I could look out the window.

Ryan
ordered us each a dirty martini, up—it came with small chips of ice floating on the top the way we liked it.
We
, I missed the
we
.
Stop going there
I reminded myself. The gin tasted smooth and cool. I realized when I finished mine that I drank it too fast. Ryan noticed also and ordered a bottle of chardonnay before he finished his.

“Sir
, is this one correct?” the waiter asked, holding out the bottle.

“Yes
,” Ryan confirmed.

We sat quietly
, somewhat stiffly, while the waiter went through the performance of opening the wine and pouring us each a glass. While he did so, Ryan finished his martini. I fidgeted with my glass, glancing out the window, hoping he would say something. A guitar player sang softly in the bar. I could feel him looking at me and I wished he would start.
Damn you, Ryan
.

“
This is awkward. It’s like we’re strangers, but we’re not. Ryan, what do you want to talk to me about?” I asked.

I could tell my question made him uncomfortable
, which irritated me. I wasn’t going to pretend this was some casual date, like I was here to have a good time. I was suddenly sorry I agreed to dinner.

“You said you wanted to talk
, so talk,” I said in an angrier tone than I’d meant too.

The waiter came back
to take our order. Ryan ordered a steak, and I ordered salmon. We used to order different things so we could share. I didn’t feel like sharing. I gazed out the window at the street. I watched the people walking down the sidewalk to avoid looking at Ryan. Liz was right. I had hoped for something that wasn’t. He reached across the table and put his fingers on my chin, turning my face toward him.