Page 26 of So Wrong It's Right

I like it too much.

We make our goodbyes after pictures and drive down Bigleaf Lane and back to “town,” parking at her place and walking to the market. I try to imagine myself here long-term if this were really my life. I’d miss things from the city. Sushi. The Apple Store. Fast Wi-Fi. But I don’t miss my commute at all. And while the nightlife is slow and stale here, it’s not like I’m the kind of man who goes clubbing.

It’s a fine day at the market, though. She buys her canned salad fixings. I buy her an enormous bouquet of flowers in the interest of appearances, of course.

She stops and pets every dog we see. I watch her ass while she’s bending over to pet them.

It really is the perfect Sunday.

On the way back to her apartment, we pass a woman pounding a stake and a real estate sign into the lawn of a Victorian house in several shades of Easter egg. I hated that house on sight. Part of me itches to buy it just to paint it one color.

“Oh, I love this house!” Stella exclaims.

Of course, she does. It’s horrifying. It’s obviously well cared for, but an eyesore, nonetheless. “It’s too...complicated,” I say, trying to find the right word. The fussy trim, the color scheme, the protruding spires and bay windows. What is wrong with a nice rectangle in a neutral shade?

“Well, I have always wanted it.” She tells me a story about people I don’t know living in it, then tells me how angry Megan will be that she was not the agent to list it. We both agree that we don’t want to be the ones to tell her and finish walking to her apartment.

As she lays out her salad vegetables and jars, she glances at the bouquet on the counter. “You’ve officially fulfilled your boyfriend obligations for the day, Doctor. You don’t have to stay. Your shift is over.”

A little place inside my gut just hollowed out. “You don’t need help with the ...?” I gesture to the salad bar on her counter.

She shakes her head. “No. I’ve got it under control, thanks. Seriously—I appreciate your willingness to save my reputation today. Goddess knows I can’t manage the thing on my own. But salad I can handle.” She hip-bumps a drawer closed, and my mouth goes dry. I want to grasp those hips, dig my fingers into the skin there and hold her tight. “I know I’ve dragged you into a huge mess. And I know you hate huge messes.” She gets a look I haven’t seen before, and I don’t like it. Contrite doesn’t suit Stella. “I’m afraid that my entire life is pretty much like this. All the time.”

There’s more happening in this conversation than I understand, so I pull my thoughts away from her hips. “Your life is a mess all the time?”

She nods. “Ask anyone.”

I cover her wrist with my hand to stop her from chopping. “I’m asking you.”

Jesus. Her eyes are so blue.

She doesn’t speak for a minute. Just stares into my eyes like she’s trying to communicate something on a radio station I can’t tune in. “Maybe I am. Sometimes...never mind.”

My hand finds her chin. I don’t think I told it to. But I bring her face back to mine. “Sometimes what?”

“I think I have a good life.”

“I think so, too.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Sure, I do. You’re surrounded by friends and family who love you. You have a good job.”

“You don’t think I’m good at my job.”

“I never said that. You don’t do it the way I would. But you have a way with the patients, and Dr. Anderson thinks you walk on water. You seem happy there. It appears to pay your bills. You have a roof over your head. Albeit a crazily decorated one. It’s a good job. A good life.”

She nods. “I do love my job.” She glances around the room. “You don’t like my house?”

“I don’t have to live in it. Where is this insecurity coming from?”

She shrugs. “Anyway, you made your public appearances today. I’m sure there are things you’d rather be doing. There’s probably something in your life that needs alphabetizing or something. So, you can go.”

She’s right. Not about the alphabetizing. But I’ve done what we set out to do today. I’ve fulfilled my bargain. Why am I reluctant to leave?

“I’ll admit a certain curiosity about the jars of salad.”

She smiles, her blue eyes twinkle with mischief. “Well, you start with the salad dressing.” She measures some into a jar and then hands me the bottle and the measuring cup.

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