Page 113 of Catch a Kiwi
“In other words,” he said, “It’s not me, it’s you. Except that itisme. But what d’you mean, ‘a lot for me to have to stand up to?’ You stand up to me just bloody fine.”
“Maybe,” I said. “I mean, I accept that it feels that way to you. And it’s somuchme and not you. I’m sorry if this has felt like … like false pretenses. Taking your money for the dress and the shoes, not to mention this house and the dinner. And the hotel. And the lingerie. And thepainting.You can’t have wanted that painting. That was so over the top. I can?—”
“Do not,” he said, his face looking nearly dangerous, “tell me that you’ll pay me back.”
“Oh. Right, then. I won’t. I can’t pay for the painting anyway. It was thousands of dollars. Maybe they’ll take it back, though. They probably haven’t even shipped it yet. You could?—”
“I bought it,” he said, biting the words off, “because I wanted it. It’s not your responsibility, and neither am I. I can take care of myself.”
“Oh. Of course.” I’d hurt him, and that was the last thing I’d wanted to do. If anybody had ever seemed solid and strong enough to be a launching pad back into life, it was Roman. But that didn’t mean he didn’t feel anything, or that he didn’t need anything. Besides, that was just his surface, and hadn’t I learned enough to know that people were more than their surface?
Also, what did I do now?
He seemed to know, because he said, “No worries. I said too much, that’s all. That’s on me. And you’re running again. That’s on you.” He threw the duvet back and got out of bed. “I’m going to take a shower and get dressed. Got some work to do before tomorrow.”
Oh. I was still in his bed. I scrambled out, thinking,Right. Right. I’ll go … for a walk on the beach. I’ll get a coffee. A decaf one, so I’m not up all night. What time is it? It must be … afternoon? Evening? When? I won’t get anything to eat, or not much, because this isn’t my real life, and I can’t afford to eat out. Oh. Delilah’s still got that credit card. I need to … I’d better message her.Feelingabout two inches tall. Like I’d come along on this trip, had taken all this from Roman, had made him feel like itwasa romance, when I’d turned out not to want that at all. That I’d promised him understanding, and closeness, and maybe more.
That I’d been exactly as deceptive in my actions as Felipe had been with me. All this time, I’d thought I was the blameless one, but maybe not. Maybe there are all sorts of ways to chip away at a marriage.
All of that whirled through my head as I grabbed my tea, wished for a towel, wished for my clothes. As I heard a door slam in the distance and Delilah shout, “Hello?”
Roman came out of the bathroom fast. I thought in response to Delilah, but apparently not, because he strode across the floor to me, naked and soaking wet. He’d been in the shower, and it was still running. I was just registering that when he grabbed me, kissed me quick and hard, stepped back from me as I stood stunned, and said, “Stop torturing yourself.” Gruffly.
I said, “What?” Not my brightest moment on the planet.
“You’re standing here suffering, feeling like you’ve hurt me. You haven’t hurt me, or if you have, I’ll get over it.”
“I took your money,” I said.
“I don’t care about the bloody money!” It was a shout, and then he seemed to recover himself, because he shoved his dripping hair back and said in a more controlled voice, “I did exactly what I wanted to do, and so did you. I asked you to come for the weekend, and you did. You never told me you’d live with me. You told me you wouldn’t. You never told me you’d love me.”
“But you want—” I started to say.
“You can’t always get what you want,” he said.
“So we’re—” I began again, and then had to stop, because how was I planning to end that sentence?
“No dramas, Summer,” Roman said, looking weary. “We like each other. We had sex a couple of times, and it was bloody good. I’m not going to tell you that I didn’t mean what I said, because I don’t lie to myself if I can help it. You’re not ready for anything like that, though. You told me you weren’t. You were clear. No deception there. But I’m not going to ring you again after tomorrow. If you decide you want me, you’re going to have to do the running. I’m not much on sacrifice, though, so don’t call unless you want to do this for real. And don’t expect me to wait for you.”
Summer
“All righty, then,” Delilah said, when I came out of Roman’s bedroom. “That’s quite an entrance. So much for caution and rebuilding our strength and our ability to be alone before we jump into a relationship with somebody new. At least I think that’s how your explanation generally goes. I haven’t always paid that much attention.”
I said, “I need to put on clothes for this conversation.” Rather than a towel. I’d hastily snatched my sweat-soaked clothes off the floor of Roman’s bathroom while he showered, because I hadn’t been able to figure out any non-awkward way of getting them back, but I couldn’t bring myself to wear them, clammy and damp as they were. Ihadpeeked out to make sure Delilah was alone, though. In a bikini and coverup, with most of the contents of the fridge and pantry spread out on the kitchen bench before her as if she were taking inventory. Three kinds of cheese and two kinds of crackers, plus apples, mandarins, grapes, and chocolate truffles. And fresh-squeezed orange juice. And ice cream, because that was what she was scooping out into a bowl. Not a small bowl, either. The only thing she hadn’t gotout was the soup. Too nutritious and not caloric enough, probably.
“Well, that’s one thought,” Delilah said. “Your body could give a person an inferiority complex, you realize, and your towel’s seriously slipping. Also, you know you’ve got some marks there, right? Beard burn, probably. You could think of that next time before you traumatize me.” She took a bite of chocolate ice cream and followed it up with a cracker topped with a big wedge of sharp cheddar. I was so distracted, I barely shuddered.
“There isn’t going to be a next time,” I said, not bothering to fix my towel, because what was the point?
“Oh?” She raised her eyebrows, picked up a chocolate truffle, and took a nibble. “OK, I’m gazing firmly at your left eye. That seems safe. That bad, huh? I’d have sworn Roman was your type. Masterful.”
“Masterful? He is, sure, but how is that my type? It’s sonotmy type. Felipe was …”
“A big baby, yeah,” Delilah said.“Soobviously insecure, and incredibly immature under the posing. All that bling. All that celebrating. Ugh. And you’re telling me he was your type? Please. He was the giant mistake you couldn’t admit to yourself.”
“You discerned this at the age of twelve,” I said.
“No,” Delilah said, cutting up the rest of the truffle, sprinkling it over the ice cream, and digging in. “I looked up the trial a few weeks back and read the immaturity thing—that trial generated alotof coverage—and agreed with it, but what was he when you got together? Twenty? Even younger than you, and newsflash, you were born mature and he wasn’t. And then, of course, he had his mommy to take care of him. Again. That would be you. Hey,” she said when I opened my mouth, “you’ve never talked about it. I had to form an opinion somehow. But the way you are with Roman, it’sobvious you like the strong, masterful, grown-man deal way better. Sexual chemistry much? Sparks flying all over the place, even while I was concussed and you were all bloody. Even if they’re hostile sparks, they’re still sparking away like mad, and this weekend, sorry, but you haven’t seemed hostile. You’ve seemed like that thing they say.” She made air quotes with her free hand. “Swept off your feet. Of course, heispretty rich. And good-looking, I guess, if you like tough old guys, even though he’s not nearly as handsome as Felipe. Kind of like Harrison Ford, and lots of older women still thinkhe’shot. Roman might actually not be a criminal, too, so there’s that.”
