The Misfortune Cookie

“Oh. No wonder I feel like a pumpkin,” I said, still holding his wrist.

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s almost morning,” I said.

But suddenly I wasn’t thinking about the time.

“I know,” he murmured.

My thoughts had shifted to how sturdy his arm felt. I hadn’t touched him in a week—except to slap him tonight.

“I wanted to release you sooner, but um . . .” His voice was a little breathless now. “But it takes some time to . . . uh . . .” He trailed off.

I looked up into his face and our eyes met. I had stepped closer to him to look at his watch. Now I realized how close. I could feel his body heat. With our gazes locked, I saw the fatigue in his dark-lashed eyes replaced by a spark of something else. Something I’d seen there before. His gaze drifted down to my lips and his breathing changed.

Everything inside me quickened and my hand tightened on his wrist. Touching him for a moment, even with his wooly sweater between my fingers and his flesh, reminded me of what it was like to touch him elsewhere . . . Everywhere . . . Really touch him. Anywhere I wanted, as much as I wanted . . .

NO. Stop right there.

I dropped his wrist like a hot rock and stepped away so quickly I stumbled.

“Careful.” He reached for me.

“Don’t,” I snapped, staggering away from his outstretched hand.

“Huh?”

I balanced myself against the nearby wall, aware that I was breathing too hard for someone who’d simply been standing around for the past few minutes.

“Esther?” he prodded.

“Don’t do that,” I said. “You are not allowed to do that.”

“Okay,” he said quickly.

“Just don’t.”

“I won’t,” he promised.

“Good.”

After a pause, he said, “Just so I know . . . What are we talking about?”

I stared at him incredulously. “I never cease to be amazed,” I said in disgust, “at what a guy you can be.”

“And here we go,” he muttered.

“No, here we don’t,” I said. “I’m leaving. Right now.”

He nodded, apparently perceiving the unwisdom of saying anything more just now. My coat was still slung over his arm. He shook it out now and held it open for me.

That date-like gesture upset me, all things considered, so I snatched the garment away from him and slipped into it by myself. It was a heavy, knee-length wool coat with a hood. I’d found it at a thrift shop two years ago. It had a ragged hem and a dark stain on one side, and its profusion of buttons and zippers always took a while to fasten and unfasten. But it was really warm and very good at keeping out the icy winter winds that hurtled down the urban canyons created by the city’s tall buildings.

While I zipped and buttoned, feeling self-conscious as Lopez watched me, I said, “I need to go home and get some sleep. Because then I have to go look for a new job now that you’ve closed down my place of employment.”

“I was doing my job,” he shot back. “And if Stella didn’t want her restaurant to be shut down, then she shouldn’t have . . . Um . . . never mind.”

Apparently my expression had made him recognize the folly of justifying tonight’s events to me at this particular moment.

Lopez sighed and, in an apparent attempt to placate me, said, “Look, maybe some acting work will turn up soon. You’ll get some auditions and . . . and . . .” After taking a good long look at my face, he said in defeat, “I probably just shouldn’t speak, huh?”

“No. And that shouldn’t be a problem for you.” I picked up my daypack. “As I’ve learned this past week, you’re really good at not speaking to me.”

I turned away and stalked toward the exit, eager to get out of here—and away from him, before I either hit him again or else burst into tears.

“Esther! Wait!”

I heard his footsteps behind me, but I didn’t slow down, let alone turn around. I had a dark feeling that tears might triumph in a few more seconds, and I didn’t want him to see that. Being around him kept reminding me of the night we’d spent together, which made it that much harder for me to bear everything that had happened since then.

“Esther, stop,” he said, right behind me now.

When I felt his hand on my arm, trying to halt me, I tried to jerk away from him. “Leave me alone!”

He tightened his grip, pulled me to a sudden stop, and turned me around to face him.

“Don’t!” I yanked myself out of his grasp.

“Sorry, sorry.” He raised his hands, palms out, and took a step back. “Sorry, but this is important. There’s something . . .” He looked uncomfortable. “Something I . . .”

Against my will, I felt a little flutter of hope unfurl inside me. “Something you want to say?” I prodded.

“Yes.” He nodded. “Something I want to say.”

I hesitated only a moment. “Okay. I’ll listen.”

“Good.” He took a breath . . . but seemed to have trouble getting started. “Um . . .”

I waited, running his lines for him in my head: I’m sorry. I should have called. I’m a toad, a worm, a dung beetle. But I’ll do anything in the world to make it up to you. Can you ever forgive me?

That would be a good beginning. I waited for him to start there.

“There’s something I keep thinking about . . .” he said tentatively.

I can never apologize enough for the way I’ve treated you. I don’t deserve it, but even so, I’m begging you for another chance.

I liked that. He could riff on that for a while. And then he’d need to explain what the hell had happened. Since it was obvious his tongue hadn’t been cut out by marauding bandits, I tried to think of some other acceptable excuse for his failure to call me. Maybe . . .

As soon as I left your apartment, I was abducted by aliens and taken to the mother ship. They didn’t release me until tonight. Nothing less than that would have made me go a whole week without calling you after what happened between us.

Hmm. Maybe not.

I frowned as I tried to think of a more plausible reason that would be equally acceptable.

Nothing came to me. I started feeling vexed with him again.

A week! A whole week.

“Well?” I prodded, thinking this had better be good. Really good. “What are you trying to say?”

“Are you still taking the pill?” he asked in a rush.

I blinked. “What?”

“We didn’t use anything that night. You know—protection. And, uh, I didn’t ask at the time . . .” When I didn’t respond, he added, “It’s something we should talk about.”

“Oh, now you want to talk,” I said, feeling fresh outrage rush through me. “All week, you couldn’t be bothered to speak to me! But now that you’ve arrested me, you’re feeling chatty.”

“Could we please stick to the subject?” he said irritably. “Just for a minute?”

“I am on the subject!”

“Are you still taking the pill?” His voice was getting louder. “That’s all I want to know!”