Page 58 of Outside the Lines
“Well?”
Her tone brooked no argument and required an answer. I nodded because my throat was too tight to speak.
“You free this evening?”
I wanted to say no, wanted to run, but the creeping icy tingling all over my skin told me I couldn’t. This town was small. I was pretty sure everyone in Stomping Grounds had a good idea of what was going down and I was on track to become the town pariah.Thatwould follow me to work too, and justifiably. “I—can be.” I had to put in a few hours today, but no one would blink if I left at my normal time.
“Then be at our house at seven.” She rose, picked up her coffee, and walked away.
It took me a moment to remember to breathe, and when I did, it was shaky and full of pain. In my throat, in my head, and behind my eyes. Oh man, I’d totally fucked up. I could ignore what I’d done when I thought—or didn’t think—about Simon. I could lie to myself. Believe I’d backed away because it was the best thing for Simon. Being face-to-face with Lydia was another matter entirely.
Worse, Iunderstoodher anger so much. If our roles had been reversed and she’d been the one to hurt Simon? I’d have been livid and . . . probably a lot less level-headed.
Seeing her anger and hearing her describe Simon’s misery had shaken me to the bone. Doubt crept over me, clawing deeper than the shame of my cowardice.
A man who didn’t want more than a fuck buddy wouldn’t be brokenhearted, nor would his wife ream me a new one for breaking his heart.
I didn’t like the conclusion bearing down on me like a freight train, because it said something pretty awful about the person I was. Not knowing what to do, I sat there until my coffee went cold and my hands weren’t shaking so much. After that, I drank my tepid cappuccino, stood, and made my way out to my car, pausing to toss the cup into the composting bin.
Apropos, that, since I felt like dirt.
The rest of the day flew by. I tried to bury myself in work, but painting model cars reminded me too much of Simon. Every second was one closer to facing the music. Around five-thirty, I gave up and headed home to shower and change. Jeans. A nice shirt. I had a bit of scruff, but I left that. This wasn’t a date.
But it was dinner. I had no idea if I was supposed to bring something. What do you take to a “grow a pair and talk to your boyfriend” meal? Ex-boyfriend? Technically, we hadn’t broken up, but I’d pretty much killed the relationship.
I hadn’t wanted to, but I also hadn’t seen any other way not to have my life crack apart.Thathadn’t worked so well.
In the end, I swung by the grocery store and found a nice bottle of wine—pricier than I usually went for, but I owed Simon an apology. Or at least an explanation. I also wanted to thank Lydia for pulling my head out of my ass. She’d been right about me needing to talk to Simon, though the idea filled me with dread.
A few minutes before seven, I stood on the Derrys’ stoop and rang their doorbell.
Lydia answered. “Hello, Ian.” Her eyes were a little wide.
“Hi.” Walking in felt tender and sharp, as if I were both welcome and unwelcome. I handed her the bottle of wine. “Did you think I wouldn’t show?”
Lydia studied the label, then appraised me the same way. “You told Simon you’d call.”
I winced. Yeah, I’d earned that. I followed her into the kitchen. Whatever she’d been cooking smelled fantastic—beef and something with garlic and the delightful odor of caramelized onions. My stomach would have been growling if it hadn’t been tied up in knots.
Simon wasn’t there. Lydia nodded at a partially open door on the other side of the kitchen. “He’s in the basement.”
Oh. I fidgeted for a moment, but I couldn’t put this off any longer, so I went. The stairs were plain wood, and the basement wasn’t finished—there were concrete floors and rafters of under flooring and supports. The gentle sound of running water filled the space. Simon stood at a utility sink by the washer and dryer, cleaning a brush. His shoulders were tight, and when I set foot on the floor of the basement, he glanced over, frowned, and went back to work.
I didn’t know what else to do, so I came a little closer and watched him. Black—he’d been painting with black, given the rinse water and the stains on his fingers. Simon took his time, until the paint was gone and the water ran clear. He set the brush down, cleaned his hands, then shut the water off.
The basement fell into silence. Simon shaped the end of the brush, then put it down on a paper towel on top of the drier. Finally, he turned to me and crossed his arms.
He didn’t say a word. Not one. Anger. Contempt. Sadness. I recognized all those emotions in his body and in the downward pull of his lips.
“Hi,” I whispered.
Simon tilted his head and snorted.
Yeah, that wasn’t going to be enough. I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I’m sorry.”
“You damn well better be.” Fury there, cold and hard. Simon lowered his arms. “Two weeks, Ian. You wouldn’tbehere if Lydia hadn’t run into you.”
My heart ticked up a notch. He was right about that. “Eventually—”
