Page 25 of Return on Love

“It’s okay,” I say. I hate it that poor Max has to bear the brunt of my silliness. I look at him and start baby-talking to him. “Come here, boy. You’re the best, aren’t you, now?” And he’s on my lap in an instant, licking my face, ears and neck, and I’m laughing while somehow remaining in the chair.

I steal a look at Ryan. He is smiling again and my heart misses a beat. The smile lights up his face, and he doesn’t look as big a twerp as he normally is.

“So, you still like dogs I see. You have one?”

Did he say still? How does he know I like dogs? I shake my head in response, trying to calm down Max. “I travel so often that it’s almost impossible for me to keep any pets. But my friend has one. A terrier. Don. I meet him often. When I’m with him, I often think of taking up a different job just so I can keep a dog.” I laugh. It’s the first time I’ve said it aloud. I’ve felt it before, but saying it out loud somehow makes it real. A desire. A wish.

I feel embarrassed to say such things in front of Ryan. I still hate him, I remind myself. One helpful deed that he probably did forcibly, so I don’t die out in the cold, changes nothing. So I make haste to change the topic to something I’m dying to know.

“So, where’s your wife?”

Ryan’s in the kitchen now, pouring out two glasses of water. He turns around. “Wife?” he says, his eyes squinted. “I don’t have one. I hope it doesn’t make you feel weird staying in the house.”

“No. Not at all.” Did it come out too quickly? I don’t know. His back is towards me again, so I can’t really see his face. No wife! Interesting. So he’s probably divorced, or maybe they just didn’t marry. Not such a perfect life, after all. I feel a little more comfortable and confident.

There’s Jen’s photo with Ryan and a woman on the mantlepiece. Another one with Jen and Max out in the garden. There’s a complete bookshelf in a corner. Guess what, it has one shelf full of mystery novels. I spot a few of my other favorites as well—The Book Thief, The Great Gatsby, Little Women. There are some on gaming, programming, entrepreneurship, and leadership. I feel a twinge of jealousy. My shelf back in LA is tiny in comparison. But of course, I carry my Kindle wherever I go and a few paperbacks.

He hands me a glass of water. “It’s late. You can stay in the guest room tonight. I’ll try to arrange the keys tomorrow. Is that okay?”

I nod as I gulp down the liquid.

“If you wanna freshen up, the guest room is to your right. You might find a change of clothes in the wardrobe. Pick up anything you like.”

I walk into the room with Max following on my heels till Ryan calls him back. I close the door and enjoy a long shower. The hot water feels so good on my tired body. I open the wardrobe. There’s a section with a young girl’s clothes and another with adult ones. So Jen and her mother probably stay in the guest room when they’re here. Not in his room. Is it safe to assume he’s not in a relationship with her anymore? Not that it affects me either way. I mean, why do I care whether he’s in a relationship? I find it weird to wear clothes that Ryan’s girlfriend slash wife slash ex-wife wears. But the dresses are so nice. I pick a blue cotton dress with little pink and white flowers.

Once changed, I look around the room. There’s a shelf with all kinds of toys—dolls, transformers, Lego. There’s a picture of Jen and Max playing out in the garden and another of Jen and Ryan in a school. Probably Jen’s school. I try to imagine Ryan going to PTMs, bake sales and annual days. It makes the man human and a little more difficult to hate.

I don’t like it. I need to bring on the hate. The conversation with him is still pending. I remember earlier that evening. He never showed up for our meeting and still had the audacity to complain about me to my boss. How dare he? And on top of that, he met my boss secretly in LA without giving me a whiff. My anger rises again. I shake off all the images of him with Jen and Max and remember only how I felt when I stomped out of the office. My leaving my keys and being in this embarrassing situation are his fault. If it hadn’t been for his obnoxious behavior, I’d never have left in such a hurry as to leave my purse behind.

As I step out of the room, I rehearse the sentences I’ve crafted in my mind, ready to express the frustration and disappointment that have been simmering within me. I’m almost ready to confront him. However, my carefully constructed plan takes an unexpected turn when the tantalizing aroma of grilled salmon wafts through the air.

Grilled salmon—my weakness, my guilty pleasure. The mere scent of it triggers a symphony of hunger pangs in my stomach as it does a slow rumble. I’m pulled towards the dining table, and I’m amazed at the spread in front of me—fish, vegetables and a glass of my favorite—Pinot Noir. To top it all, there’s a piece of soft music, Beethoven I think, playing in the background. If it were any other person, I’d have married him then and there for making this the perfect evening, especially after the pathetic day I’d had.

I see Ryan standing beside the table, the bottle of wine still in his hands, his mouth a little open, his steadfast gaze boring into me. He has that stricken, disconcerted look as if I’ve vacuumed the air out of his lungs. I look at myself. Did the dress remind him of something with his girlfriend? Probably, if his expressions are anything to go by. I’m sorry, but if he didn’t want me to wear it, he shouldn’t have told me to pick up whatever I liked. This is the one I liked. If it displeases him, so be it.

He realizes that I’m staring back and peels his eyes off me.

“You must be hungry,” he says, looking down at the table. “Let’s eat.”

He sits down, and I take a place opposite him. My tummy rumbles again, and I look up, embarrassed. “Well, guess I am hungry,” I say, and then the impossible happens. Ryan laughs. Not at me. But with me! Now, that’s a first. But why is he doing this right now? I need to say some really hurtful things to him. Of course, given the state of my tummy, I think the discussion can wait till after dinner.

I hate to admit it, but the food is delicious. Like Michelin rated restaurant delicious. He gives an embarrassed smile as I tell him that. Ryan, the narcissist! Embarrassed by his praise! What is the world coming to?

I don’t want to drink a lot of wine because I need my senses around me to talk to him (yes, the hard conversation is still on the plan) and I can’t afford to pass out or behave ridiculously in his house.

He doesn’t let me help with the cleaning after we eat. I don’t insist as well. Let him do it if he likes. I walk over to the bookshelf, admiring his collection.

“Feel free to pick up any if you like though you must’ve probably read most of them,” he says suddenly from right behind me, almost making me jump. “I’ll be right back.”

His T-shirt is a little wet from the kitchen sink, and he goes into the other room to change while I pick up my half-full glass of wine and take a seat on a chair. The door is open, and I can’t help but see inside. He takes off his T-shirt and even though I feel like a peeping Tom, I cannot take my eyes away from what is slowly being uncovered. I let out a gasp and quickly cover my mouth with my palm.

His abs are to die for. They’re like abs on a model. Perfection personified. I mean, I could be staring at the cover of a fashion magazine right now. I haven’t had enough of them, but the movement of his hands tells me that the show is about to be over. I hate it when they’re covered, a little too soon, by another T-shirt. Did he have those in grad-school? I can’t seem to remember.

I’m quite irritated with myself at this point. The reason being that I was entering a realm that I had closed down for good. I had shut and nailed this door of ‘men-in-my-life’. But I find myself being charmed into opening this door with this man’s awesome food, and even more awesome abs.

Damn him.

My eyes go up to his face, and I realize he’s caught me staring. He smiles as he struts back into the room. I turn away and gulp down the wine for want of anything better to do. It’s still my second glass. I feel a buzz, but I know I can handle that.

---