One Good Thing (17 page)

And then I stopped thinking and slid to my knees in front of him.

*

An hour later, we replicated the scene from the previous morning; I sat at the kitchen island while I watched Evan cook. Of course we were eating pancakes instead of eggs, and by this time it was definitely closer to lunch than breakfast.

I’d been forced to put on my clothes from the day before. Evan had changed into a fresh pair of gray sweatpants with a white T-shirt.

“Will you be at the Christmas party?” I asked. A calendar with astronomy pictures—like stars exploding and shimmery nebula and faraway galaxies—hung on his kitchen wall. I hadn’t even realized we were a few days into December.

The SLQ party was set for the middle of the month.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Something always happens—it’s like the cursed Christmas party.”

I laughed. “That sounds ominous.”

“Last year a woman went into early labor. Her water broke all over the floor. The year before that one of the employees somehow found out that his wife was cheating on him, and they had a huge argument in front of everyone. The year before that a guy in management came out of the closet after like twenty years and announced his love for a coworker.”

“Who knew there could be so much excitement at SLQ?”

“Excitement? More like trauma. I’d personally rather not know other people’s darkest secrets, but it’s like they get drunk and just have to share. Except for the woman who went into labor—I’m
hoping
that wasn’t alcohol induced.” He glanced at me. “Do you think you’ll be there?”

“I might.”

“You’ll probably be one of the ones who ends up tipsy and dancing on a table, won’t you?”

“Well you know how wild I am,” I said. “I might even swing from a few chandeliers. Give an impromptu lap dance to one of the owners.”

“Or—and I like this idea best of all—we could have sex in the bathroom.”

I fluttered my eyelashes at him and did my best southern accent. “Oh, Rhett, you do know how to romance a girl!”

This time he was the one who burst into laughter. And I had to admit, there
was
something satisfying about it, something a little too addicting, like I might be tempted to say or do anything to make it happen again. I found myself grinning like an idiot in response to the sound.

He set a plate down in front of me, still smiling faintly. “I know what you’re going to think when you bite into those pancakes, but no, Emeril Lagasse did not sneak into the kitchen to make your breakfast. It was all me.”

“You’re silly,” I said, because I was feeling too light and giddy myself to think of anything with very much wit. And then I berated myself … did people even use the word “silly” anymore? I might as well have started the sentence with “Gee.”

“Only for you,” he responded.

He walked toward the living room and I heard a rustling. When he came back he dropped a plastic grocery bag on the countertop. “I almost forgot—I picked up some tea on my drive back yesterday.”

I pulled it toward me, eyeing through the contents. “Some tea” was an understatement. He’d bought Earl Grey, English breakfast, Irish breakfast, green tea, mint tea, and even a couple of loose-leaf tins with a package of disposable teabags. It looked like he was a Viking raider who had been on a tea-pillaging mission. I lifted my eyebrows.

“I might’ve gotten a little carried away, but I wanted to make sure you have what you want when you’re here.”

“Thanks,” I said. My voice was nearly a whisper.

It was incredibly sweet of him to have been thinking about me last night, enough to stop at a store and raid their tea aisle when he’d obviously been tired and upset. But I hadn’t asked him to be so considerate of me.

It would be easier if he wasn’t.

“So it’s serious?”

“No,” I said. I’d been watching TV when Alyssa returned to the apartment from a shopping excursion and promptly began questioning me. She didn’t even bother to put the bags away, just piled them on the living room floor along with her coat and scarf.

“But you spent the night with him. You didn’t spend the night with Drew very often and you dated for a year.”

I clicked off the television. “I was tired.”

Alyssa grinned and shook her head. “You’re making exceptions for him.”

“I am not.”

She flopped down next to me on the sofa, crossing her legs. “So if he asked you to move in with him, would you?”

“No!” But I did like his house. And the study was fantastic.

“You hesitated. You’re thinking about it!”

“He has an actual house; it was nice being there—you know, a lot of space, a yard, that kind of thing,” I admitted.

“Would it have been as nice without him?”

I could feel my cheeks heating, but I couldn’t stop it.

“Uh-huh. You’re the queen of denial, Dani.”

I rolled my eyes. “Are we back in the nineties? I think that’s the last time I heard that expression.”

She ignored me. “You told me Drew’s new apartment was the size of a house and you never even considered moving in with him. Which I thought was kind of weird, since you’d been together so long.”

“I wasn’t ready. You don’t just move in with someone because you’ve been together for a long time. And I’m not thinking about it with Evan either—I spent one night there.”

Alyssa flipped her ponytail over her shoulder. “We’ll see.”

“How did your date go?” I asked, just so we could stop talking about Evan.

“Good.”

And that was it.

I stared at her until she uncrossed her legs and then crossed them again with the other leg on top. Usually if I asked Alyssa about a date she could talk for hours.

“We’re going out again tonight,” she muttered.

“Two dates in a row?” That was another item on the list of behavior that was abnormal for Alyssa. “What’s his name?”

“Jason.”

“
Hmm
… a good, strong name,” I said, my voice lilting with laughter.

She hugged one of the throw pillows. “Shut up.”

“You really like him?” I asked, astonished.

“Yeah,” she admitted softly. “And I’m … well, lately I’ve been kind of tired of dating so many guys. It’s not as fun as it used to be.”

“Are you settling down?” My jaw nearly dropped.

“No!” she said sharply. “I’m not thinking about marriage or kids or anything like that. I don’t even want those things. I’ve just decided I’m willing to allow things to play out, instead of breaking things off before they get too serious.”

“Well that’s good,” I said, but my chest twisted oddly at the unexpected news.

Was everyone maturing except for me? Evan had a house; Alyssa had a guy she was actually dating. What did I have? A couch in an apartment, a guy I slept with but didn’t call my boyfriend, and a job I was overqualified for? Would I be stuck inside of some perennial childhood while everyone around me got older and wiser and better?

Evan was twenty-eight. He had the house and the dog; now all he needed was the wife and kids to paint that perfect picture.

An image flashed—some anonymous woman living with him, sleeping with him every night, rising with him every morning—a permanent lover and confidante, someone who would know his heart as well as her own.

I should have been relieved that woman wasn’t me, but my throat felt thick. I stood up suddenly.

Alyssa frowned. “What is it?”

I muttered something about the library closing early on Sunday and dashed out of the apartment, into the bracing cold. I did end up walking to the library—it was only about ten minutes away and it seemed like as good a place as any to be by myself. I plucked a poetry collection from the shelf and settled into a plush armchair by a long, narrow window.

I read through the poems until the sky outside the slanting window turned purple and gray and one of the employees had to inform me the library would be closing in two minutes.

*

What are you wearing under your dress?

I glanced around, half expecting one of my superiors to be peering over my shoulder at the incriminating instant message on my computer screen. Once I determined no one was spying on me, I pulled my chair closer to the desk and responded.

That’s sexual harassment. Should I report you?

-

It would be sexual harassment if you were bothered by the question. I don’t think you are.

-

Are you saying I’m some sort of lustful creature?

-

Baby, you’re insatiable.

-

Okay, I’ll admit to it, and I’ll answer the question. But don’t call me baby.

-

All right, sweetheart.

I pursed my lips to keep from grinning and glanced over my shoulder once more before I answered.

I’m wearing something incredibly sexy … if granny panties are your standard.

-

Mmm, granny panties. I need more detail.

-

Plain briefs, gray. A simple matching bra. I’m really boring today.

-

You and underwear never equal boring in my mind.

-

That’s good because I got rid of the red thong.

There was a long silence from Evan before I started typing again
. Ha! Just kidding.

-

You might as well have stomped on my heart.

-

I thought you said me and underwear never equal boring.

-

It’s true … gray briefs are like white cake; who doesn’t love white cake? But the thong is like red velvet.

-

You want to eat them?

-

I want to eat you.

-

Oh my God. I stepped right into that one.

-

You really did.

-

Don’t you have something better to do than texting me? Like your job.

-

Nothing’s better than talking to you. Anyway, I’ve been doing this for nearly six years. I think I can multitask.

-

I can’t believe you’ve been working full-time for six years. You’re so old.

-

And hot right?

-

I won’t admit to that.

-

You can come over and sit on my lap, to continue the kinky older man fantasy.

-

What, like Santa Claus?

-

Just let me get out the beard and hat.

-

Gross!

-

I have a present for you. It’s in my pants.

-

☹

-

Too creepy?

-

Too creepy.

-

Okay, I’ll remember you don’t have a Santa Claus fetish. But you can still sit on my lap.

-

I don’t think so. You need to focus.

-

Focusing is hard. Just like the present in my pants.

-

Shouldn’t you have trouble getting it up at your age?

-

Ouch. As in E.T.- leaving-Elliot ouch.

-

I can’t believe you just referenced
E.T.

-

I know, I’m so uncool I’m cool, right?

-

If thinking that gets you through the day, sure.

-

You need to be punished for your sassiness. Come to my office.

-

Sassiness? Evan, you make it too easy.

-

Office. Now.

-

And if I don’t?

-

I’ll just take it out on you later. Which isn’t a bad idea. I’d like to hear more expletives from your glorious mouth.

I exited out of the e-mail program and lifted my head to peek over the cubicle wall at Evan’s office. He caught my eye through one of the full-length windows and tried to waggle his eyebrows at me, which had me sounding like I was choking as I snorted into my hand to hide my laughter. I stood, grabbed a manila folder, and then listened to my shoes click against the linoleum floor, carrying me closer to him.

His desk faced the door. He glanced up as soon as I stepped past the threshold. I closed the door and then moved closer, the envelope clutched in front of me. And waited.

“There’s not much we can do with these windows,” he admitted ruefully, leaning back in his chair, his elbows on the armrests.

“They probably installed them because they knew they’d have kinks like you working here.”

He laughed, his eyes sweeping me from head to toe. “You just get better and better,” he said.

I frowned. It seemed almost like a sarcastic remark, but nothing about his voice sounded sarcastic.

“Should I go back?”

“Not yet. I like looking at you.”

Silence stretched between us. Our gazes caught, and as we stared at each other I remembered every blushworthy thing we’d done. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, looking down at the floor.

“Did you paint at all this weekend?”

I looked back up and shook my head. I’d been close, the image of the father and daughter haunting me all day once I’d arrived home, but at the last minute I had changed my mind.

“Why did you stop? You never told me.”

“I don’t really know why,” I admitted, lifting my shoulders. But that was a lie; I did know. I just hadn’t put it in words yet. “I was …” I sighed and began again. “I did an exhibit at an art gallery my junior year. It was at a small place, but I still managed to get some reviews. And they were mostly good. And then there was an article in the
Tribune
,” I said, smiling wryly. I still didn’t know how I felt about that article; it had praised my art and managed to terrify me with one sentence:
I have great expectations for the future work of this artist.
“After that people actually bought my paintings. Everything at the exhibit sold.” I shook my head. “It felt like I was at the top, like I’d reached the highest point. And then I did some pieces for another exhibit my last semester, and no one wanted them. There were no reviews; there was hardly any interest at all. Every time I look at a canvas now … it’s …”