“Do you mind?” she asked, pulling her elbow from his hand.
“Fine,” he snapped, and made a grand, sweeping gesture toward his car, indicating she should precede him.
She preceded him, all right, striding forward with the determination of a woman who wanted to end a really bad date. In fact, she didn’t wait for him to open the car door, but did it herself, tossing her backpack to the floor and crawling in over it. When she had seated herself, Michael leaned over, his eyes hard. “All good?”
“All good,” she snapped, and looked forward.
He got in the car, started it up, pulled out of the parking lot at a speed Leah did not think was particularly safe, but came to an abrupt halt at the street. He sat there, one hand on the wheel, one on the gear shift, staring straight ahead until a guy behind them honked for Michael to move.
He pulled out in a screech of wheels onto Montana Avenue.
It seemed only minutes before they were on Venice Boulevard and Leah was directing Michael to her house. When they pulled into the drive, she took one look at the yellowing grass, the trash can that was still lying on the street from two days ago, the pile of shoes near the front door, and—dear God, how embarrassing—her half-finished origami peacock. Brad had moved it from the kitchen table to the porch, and there it sat in all of its half-finished glory, with a pair of men’s briefs dangling from its head.
She wished she could crawl in a hole. She was thirty-four years old, and she lived in the middle of a scene right out of Animal House.
“Thanks,” she said crisply, grabbed her backpack, and opened the door. So did Michael. “What are you doing?” she demanded as she shut the passenger door and slung her backpack over one shoulder.
He responded by striding around the front of the car to stand between her and the house, his hands on his hips. “I see you are still doing origami. I see it has gotten even bigger.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You have a problem with big origami?”
“Not at all,” he said. “But you like the small, delicate stuff. That is why you paid a small fortune to take the class with that origami master—to get your scale under control.”
“Goddammit, is there anything you’ve forgotten? I was only in that class for a week, and you remember that?”
“You didn’t even make it a week. You made it exactly two nights before you decided you were in over your head. But that is what I am trying to tell you, Leah—”
“What, that I am in over my head?”
“No,” he said, his jaw tight, his patience obviously being tested. “I am trying to tell you that I remember. I remember everything,” he said. “I remember the origami, the acting, and how you hated the makeup guy on your last play. I remember how you looked in the morning when your hair was all messed up and how you wore my shirts that just barely covered your lovely butt, and how frantic you would get when you couldn’t find your keys.”
Her heart leapt, began to beat frenetically. She quickly threw up a hand and held it out. “Stop! Stop it right now. Jesus, Michael, have you heard a word I’ve said? I don’t want to remember!” she cried, and dropped her arm, tried to step around him, but he blocked her path and caught her by the shoulders. And in spite of her cry of indignation, he forced her to look up, to look at him. There was a glint in his eyes as if he had no intention of ever letting her go.
“I remember how you used to laugh at my stupid jokes and how we’d make spaghetti and fling it at the wall to see if it stuck, and how I never saw a single Monday night football game the entire time we were together, because there was that stupid cooking show you refused to miss.”
“Okay, all right,” she said, and feeling overwhelmed and angry, she grabbed his wrist, tried to pull it from her shoulder. “You remember. Congratulations. But it still doesn’t change anything.”
“I remember,” he said, pulling her closer, “how you taste, how you smell, and how you look completely naked.” His gaze dropped to her breasts.
She was on the verge of crumbling. “Oh God, please don’t do this,” she pleaded.
“I remember the little smile you have on your face when you sleep and how you moved all my stuff in the bathroom to the bottom drawer to make room for all your things.”
Leah remembered all that, too, and more. She closed her eyes and dropped her head back, remembering what he looked like naked, how hot and hard he felt inside her, the way he moved, driving her crazy. How he’d make her breakfast the next morning and serve it in bed, nibbling on her toes while she nibbled toast. She didn’t dare open her eyes, didn’t dare look at him, for fear of crumbling completely.
But Michael pulled her a little closer and whispered in her ear, “I remember how we used to make love, baby. I remember how to make you come.”