Page 138 of The Rom-Commers

“Getting there,” I said.

Then, eyes still closed, he held the sweatshirt open like an O so I could slide into that, too.

As soon as I was in, Charlie opened his eyes.

“Hey,” I said. “I didn’t say you could open your eyes.”

“You need socks,” Charlie said, all business. He grabbed a thick pair from his drawer and squatted down by my feet to put them on. I braced myself against his shoulder for balance.

As he finished with the socks, he looked down at the wet, empty dress as if that, of all things, was stumping him.

“Just throw it away,” I said.

“It’s a hell of a dress,” Charlie said, in protest.

“It’s ruined now,” I said. In more ways than one.

Charlie didn’t fight me. He tossed it toward his trash can, but missed.

“I can’t believe you just made me do that,” Charlie said then.

“What?” I asked. “Throw away my dress?”

“Change your clothes with my bare hands.”

“Stop complaining,” I said. “You’re fine.”

But Charlie wasn’t about to stop complaining. “Classic Emma,” he said. “Everything that you say is not romanticisromantic. You said it’s not romantic for people to fall on each other, but then you fell on me and it was. You said line dancing isn’t romantic, but then we went there and you ogled that Italian guy and I thought I was going to lose my mind. And here you are telling me to strip you down naked with my eyes closed, like if I can’t see you it’ll be PG-13, but instead I’m having to put my hands all over you—and it’s not better, it’sso much worse.”

By the time he was finished, he’d stood back up and was face-to-face with me.

His eyes were dark, and he looked kind of mad.

“Are you mad at me?” I asked.

“No,” Charlie said, still looking mad.

“I thought you didn’t feel feelings like that,” I said. “I thought your heart was a suicidal bird.”

“I feel feelings, okay?”

“Yeah, but notthosefeelings. Remember? I had to explain to you what love feels like. And you don’t even like me like that, as you’ve explained in very clear terms. And you’re getting back together with your mean ex-wife. Nothing about any of this should be a problem for you. There should be nothing going on here but mechanics and knitwear.”

Charlie was frowning hard now, like he had fifty different things he wanted to say but couldn’t decide between them.

I waited. Frowning back.

Finally he said, “I’m not getting back with Margaux, okay? That’s not happening. That was never going to happen.”

“You said it was.”

“I said itmight.”

“Are we parsing verbs now?”

“The point is—” Charlie started, but then he stopped himself.

I gave it a second, then I said, “What? What is the point?”

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