***
So maybe I finally have added stalking to my list of failings because for the past seven days I’ve made a point of driving by Rebecca’s place. I just keep thinking that if she’s outside somehow, maybe going for a jog, that I can pull over and lay everything on the line. I could talk to her about Andrea’s party, find out if she plans to come.
In my mind, that party is my last real shot with her. If that moment passes us by, she’ll be like a sundial with me the shadow. Our point of intersection will pass like a lengthening shadow—permanently.
But the drive-bys don’t yield any reward, so I’m forced to do what I’m so very terrible at: be patient. I have to let her come to me on her terms now. That’s what Marti told me last night over Mexican food. “You’ve done the pursuing, wooing thing,” she told me after I admitted to having sent her flowers last week. And owned up to the party invitation. And the late night calls.
“Rebecca has to find her way out of her darkness and back to you, Michael. You can’t find that path for her.”
I growled, shaking my head. “I suck at the waiting game.”
Marti swatted me on the arm. “Too bad, lover boy. This one’s not as easy as Alex.”
“And that sucks, too.”
“Lord, Warner, did you forget what you’re dealing with?”
I gave her a blank look, so she finished the statement. “A woman! Rebecca is a woman. Alex was easier to figure out because he was a guy, and Rebecca’s not exactly opaque, but the stuff she’s been through…yeah, it’s gonna take a whole lot more patience than you naturally possess, old friend.”
I sank down in that booth and decided I could man up on her account, become stronger and more resilient than I’d acted since we broke up. I could do the army drill and dig into the trenches for the very long haul.
Chapter Thirty: Rebecca
The ice skating rink in Studio City is teeming with cars, even at two o’clock on a Saturday afternoon. I never RSVP’d for Andrea’s party; I knew if I talked to Michael on the phone, I would cave completely. That I’d be little more than a mushy puddle of regret, and I wanted time to think about my decision.
Even today, I’m still frightened and uncertain, but I know I need to be here for Andrea. I adore her, and I’m fairly certain she asked Michael to invite me. I won’t let her down by not coming. More than that, though, I know what I want. Who I want. I’ve been running from him long enough.
Entering the rink, a blast of cool air contrasts to the hot September day I left outside. Boppy teenage music blares over the speakers, a nameless tune that all the little girls gathered here undoubtedly love, transforming the large dank interior into something of a disco cave. Just past the entryway, I glimpse rows of tables with balloons. There’s a small lettered sign on one of the long tables with Andrea’s name on it. Nobody is at the table, though—there’s only the stack of birthday presents and a pink cake with a sparkling silver ice skate drawn on top in icing.
I’m glancing around, looking for a familiar face, when Michael calls out my name.
I turn. He’s leaving the concession stand, juggling a container of soft drinks and popcorn between his hands, grinning at me. “I knew you’d come,” he says, his throaty voice electrifying me. “You wouldn’t miss her birthday.”
I return the smile. “Can I help you with those?” I ask, reaching for the popcorn.
“Yeah, that’d be great,” he says, relief showing on his face. “I was afraid I might drop something. Pretty damn expensive, buying all this stuff.” He nods toward the stand. “But the kids have to get it, you know.”
“Or it wouldn’t be a party,” I laugh, and he nods in agreement. Together we walk toward the table, and I deposit my wrapped present with all the others. I’m quivering on the inside, fighting hard to keep my composure on the outside, just from being this near him again. Just from knowing what I really want for the first time in three years.
We sit down on a pair of benches facing one another. Neither of us seems to know what to say, and an awkward silence falls over us. He points toward the ice. “The girls are out there. Marti and Casey are watching them for me. Well, and a few of the parents.”
“That’s good.” I offer him a warm smile. I want to transmit all the love I feel for him; all the emotion that I’ve tried to stifle these past weeks.
“Just so you know that it’s okay,” he explains, sounding nervous. “Us being over here, you know. Not watching and all that.” He rubs his open palm over his hair. It’s shorter than I’ve seen it before, cropped super-close, which is an incredibly appealing look on him.
You’re so beautiful, I think on the inside. Outside I have no idea what to do.