“Sir?” the stranger prompts me, and I gaze up into his clear blue eyes again, shaken completely. That wholesome smile, the sun-drenched freckles; I know I’m staring hard when he asks gently, “Your menu, sir?”
Under my breath I mutter an apology, relinquishing it into those freckled hands, dusted with auburn hair. Allie’s hands were freckled like that, I think, as our fingers brush, ever so slightly, and I nearly burn with the physical connection. And then he turns. He turns and he’s gone, back to the kitchen, and my sense of loss at that moment is so acute I almost forget that my girlfriend is there, at the table, watching me fall for Alex all over again.
Noticing Rebecca, I find all the color washed right out of her face. She saw it too, exactly what I saw. And if she hadn’t seen it in the waiter’s face, she saw it all reflected right on mine.
Back at the house, Andrea goes straight to her room to take a bath and get ready for bed. It’s my first real chance to talk to Rebecca after the dinner fiasco.
But I don’t talk. Instead, I sink onto the sofa, flipping on the television. Rebecca stands in the kitchen, distant from me. She’s barely said a word since the restaurant.
“I figure we might drive up the coast some tomorrow morning,” I say, avoiding her probing gaze. “I know Andie’d love that. We can be back on the beach by afternoon.”
Rebecca doesn’t answer me, only walks across the room, staring out the window. I can’t see her face, can’t gauge her emotions, though I have a pretty good idea what she’s feeling. Through the glass, she watches the dark ocean, silent, her face inscrutable.
“I got up last night,” she says, staring out the windows. “While you were watching videos.”
“Oh.” Oh shit. I couldn’t sleep, felt on edge thinking about how we’d made love. I guess I needed a connection with Alex after that—and after riding all those waves without him. I just missed him: nothing terribly complex.
She eyes me warily. “You seemed fine on your own, so I went back to bed.”
“I wish you’d told me you were up.”
She shrugs, turning her back to me again. “I wasn’t sure what to say.”
“You could’ve said you were awake,” I try gently. “Just like me. I’d like to show you tapes of Al some time. If you want to see ‘em.”
She sighs, a heavy, defeated sound. “Did you have to flirt with him, Michael?” For a moment, I blink in confusion, thinking she means Alex. But then I understand who she means.
She finally turns to look at me. “I mean, staring I understand. Pretending he was Alex, I get that too. But did you really have to flirt so much?”
I don’t answer right away, truly considering her comment. I’ve fucked up big time; I know it. I just don’t know how to rescue the situation. “Didn’t think I actually flirted,” I finally say, trying to smile. “I do draw the line at some point.”
“And that’s supposed to make me feel better?” She folds her arms over her chest. “About you hitting on a guy right in front of me?”
“I wasn’t hitting on anybody.” And I wasn’t—I would never do that in front of Rebecca or Andrea, but I don’t add that lame argument. “I was just chatting with the guy.”
“You flirted.” She shakes her head in disbelief. “I haven’t spent ten years in the entertainment business without learning to recognize some major flirtation when I see it.”
I drop the denials, feeling a little like Bill Clinton in his Lewinsky days. “It didn’t mean anything, Rebecca.” And it didn’t. I guess I did flirt a little, even though I knew I shouldn’t, but some dark part of myself couldn’t seem to hold back. Not because I wanted Nick the Waiter—but rather because I wanted him to be Alex. “Becca, I’m never gonna see that guy again. It didn’t mean anything.”
She pushes past me, toward the bedroom she’s sharing with Andrea. “See, that’s where you’re wrong, Michael,” she says, voice quivering. “Because it meant everything to me.”
***
I wake to an empty bed with ruthless morning sunlight forcing its way through the billowing curtains. The bedroom door is slightly ajar, and I hear the television and Katie Couric’s overly optimistic voice from down the hall.
I spent the night unable to sleep, restless and aching for Rebecca—wishing she were in my bed, not sleeping in my daughter’s room. I wanted to make love last night, but she worried about Andrea waking up. Deep down, I know her hesitation was far more complex.