Christian veers toward the table—our conch fritters are there waiting for us—but I keep walking past, toward the staircase that will take me out of the Rum Barrel and out of this awkward situation.
I duck into the ladies’ room. One step past the door, as I’m staring at my reflection in the midst of carefree vacationers and happy-go-lucky visitors, Christian is right there, holding the door open for a pair of women who are exiting and on their way back out to the party.
The hidden boundary between men and women obviously doesn’t deter him, even in a place with a skirted stick figure on the door.
“What are you going to do?” He presses his lips together and narrows his stare. “You going to avoid me? Walk around me forever? The island’s not that big, sweetheart, and what just happened . . . well, let’s just say it’s not too terrible.”
I splash cold water onto my face. “It’s the rum. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“But you did. We did. What’re you going to do?” He touches my elbow, and I turn toward him. “Pretend it didn’t happen? Because I have to tell you, trying to forget it or even trying to pretend to forget—”
Our lips crash together again, and after a second or two, the kiss comes to a close. I’m not sure how it happened, but . . . damn.
“There,” he says. “We’re even. You made a mistake, then I made a mistake, and now we’re even.”
My hands are pressed to his chest; his arms are draped casually around my body. I can’t look him in the eye.
“Nothing to be ashamed of,” he says. “Blame it on the island, on the mojito, on the dancing.”
“It’s just that . . .” I’m a clumsy idiot at the moment, tripping over my words as surely as I’d trip over my feet if I tried to walk around him right now. “If anything else happens . . . not saying that’s what I want—”
“You’re saying you don’t.”
“I’m not saying that, either. I mean, look at you. You’ve been the best neighbor anyone could ask for.”
“So have you.”
“And you’re sort of nice to look at, you know?”
“Sort of?” His brow crinkles, and the corners of his lips turn up in a combination smile-slash-smirk.
“And after the day I’ve had—after the months of fertility shots and timetables and . . . everything else . . .”
“Veronica.”
“It wouldn’t mean anything, and after what you’ve been through, you deserve it to mean everything, and—”
“Veronica.”
“What?”
“Let’s eat our fritters. Have another drink. Maybe dance a little more. We don’t have to solve all the world’s problems right here, right now, in the ladies’ room.”
Another patron comes in.
“Come on.” He juts his chin toward the door. “It’s getting crowded in here.”
At the corner of Front Street and Simonton—with one, possibly two, too many mojitos under my belt—I grab Christian’s elbow to steady myself as I pull the flip-flops from my feet. “My feet are killing me.”
“Well, what do you expect, walking around on three-dollar slabs of rubber?” He smooths an eyebrow with the pad of his thumb. The streetlamps catch the raised flesh on his hand, and in my slightly inebriated state, I nod in its direction. “What happened there?”
The hint of a smile appears on his lips. “We’re going to have a personal conversation?”
“Are you kidding?” With the straps of my flip-flops tucked over my fingers, I step off the curb, toward the ocean, to my left. “We’ve had at least ten of those tonight.”
“Elizabeth Street is this way.” He slides his hands into his pockets and twitches his head to the right. “And that’s debatable.”
I indicate left. “The beach is this way. Would you believe I haven’t so much as seen the beach since I’ve been here?” I’ve been texting with Christian’s nieces all night. They’ve sent pictures of my daughter mid-games, mid-snacks, mid-drawings, and finally, asleep. I know Elizabella is in good hands, and while I may have sucked down more mint-infused rum than I need, it’s still early.
He shakes his head a little and lets out a chuckle. But he follows me across the street and past the gate of some fancy-looking hotel.
“So . . . do you want the story I usually tell about how I got the scar? Or do you want to know the truth?”
“Does any girl ever tell you to lie to her?”
“All right, I’ll tell you both versions. You get to decide which really happened.”
“Are you going to tell me if I guess right?”
“We’ll see. Story number one: I’m in the middle of a fistfight. You know the one. With the asshole who knocked up my wife.”
“You broke his nose.”
“Right. But the real story is why. He came at me first, like I told you. But what I didn’t tell you is that he came at me with a weapon.”
“A weapon,” I repeat.
He shrugs. “Of sorts. Automatic nail gun. We were in the midst of a home improvement project. The guy was our general contractor. He came at me, and I”—he demonstrates with a hand up—“I blocked, and he shot.”
“So you broke the guy’s nose with a nail sticking out of your hand?”
“Yes, I did.” His elbow grazes against mine as we walk. “But to be fair, I hit him with the other hand.”
“That’s pretty unbelievable.”
“You think so?”
“Sorry. I do.”
“Okay. Story number two: It’s after the split with my ex, and I’m out on a blind date at one of those chop-chop-at-the-table Japanese grill restaurants. The chef is there, doing his thing, and suddenly, one of the knives goes flying. It’s heading straight for my date. And I’m thinking, I can’t let anything happen to her, or she won’t go out with me again, right?”
“You’re thinking about all of that as the knife’s flying?”
“It’s one of those situations where you sort out your thoughts later. But long story short: I bat the knife down midair.” He shakes his head. “At least that’s what I thought I did. She’s screaming, and some other guy at the end of the table passes out, and I look down, and the knife is sticking straight up out of my hand.”
“That really happened?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “Did it? But it would explain why I’m thirty-four and retired. Those national chain restaurants have some decent insurance. Also might explain why she never went out with me again, but I digress.”
“You saved her life.”
“Eh.” He shrugs, as if what he proposes he’s done is no big deal.
“You took a knife for her, and she wouldn’t go out with you again?”
“I don’t know if that’s the reason, but no, she didn’t.”
“What a bitch.”
“Are you saying that if I took a knife for you, you’d go out with me again?”
“Well, considering this isn’t a date, I don’t know if I’d go out with you again, but—”
“But we danced . . . you bought my drinks. How is this not a date?”
I stop walking before we hit the ocean, but the surf rolls up on the shore to tickle my toes anyway. “I didn’t pay the tab.”
“Huh. How about that?”
“Did you pay the tab?”
He shrugs. “They know me. I’m probably the only Phillies fan on this island. They’ll bill me later.”
For a few moments, I’m astonished that I was too lit to remember to pay for my dinner—and I most certainly am feeling a little on the warm and dizzy side—and I’m feeling a bit like a degenerate. But when he starts to laugh, I realize he’s kidding.
After drink number three . . . or four . . . I asked for the check and went to the ladies’ room—alone this time—and when I came out, he was waiting there, offering to walk me home. Of course he paid the tab. “That’s twice now,” I say. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Maybe I want another casserole.”
“Because the first one was so incredible.”
“If I’m being honest, I’m not that big on casseroles. I prefer to drink my carbs, to tell you the truth. And I don’t much like the idea of having you indebted to me, but I do like the idea of getting to know you a little better.”