Venturing into their home, there’s no sign of anyone; only the chilly sensation of air conditioning and late-day shadows. Andrea must have vanished into her bedroom, so I call out, “Michael?” but there’s no answer. Wandering through the living room, I spy him sitting on the back deck, staring thoughtfully up into the mountains. Rough weekend. Talk about an understatement, I think, seeing exhaustion in his dark features. Then, feeling guilty for staring at him when he’s unaware, I urge the sliding glass door open. He glances up with a start, and flashes a dimpled smile as he stands to greet me.
“Didn’t expect you so soon,” he announces a little too cheerily, and I know that his good humor is forced on my account.
“Oh.” I wrap arms around myself. “Is that bad? Sorry.”
“No, no, not bad,” he rushes, taking a step toward me. “Just lost track of time, I guess.”
One glance at his wardrobe and I can see that he showered and dressed for my arrival. He’s wearing a short-sleeved polo shirt and nicely pressed khakis this time—the first occasion I’ve seen him out of blue jeans, and he’s absurdly handsome, with his dark looks and boyish smile. His hair’s still wet, too, curling slightly where he’s combed it along his nape. It’s obvious that if he’d let it grow, the curls would get out of hand, and I itch to lift my fingers and stroke the damp hair. To lean up onto my tiptoes and kiss him hello, right on his sandpapery cheek.
“I love your outfit,” he remarks, glancing at my sundress and denim jacket getup, one I lingered over nearly forever before walking out the door tonight. “Very Reese Witherspoon, gotta say.”
I wave him off dismissively, feeling embarrassed that he’s putting the focus on me. “Oh, it is so not.” But I’m still smiling inside and out, and he sees it.
He takes another step even closer. “Most people would consider that a compliment, Ms. O’Neill,” he says, voice whiskey-deep. “She’s blonde, she’s hot. You do the math.”
Swallowing hard, I shove my hands into my jacket pockets, staring at my sandals. I’m about to joke that I might prefer a Naomi Watts comparison when the side gate to the deck opens unexpectedly, startling me until I realize it’s the Domino’s guy. “Hey, Jose,” Michael greets him warmly, reaching in his back pocket for his wallet. No surprise that my single guy is on a first-name basis with the pizza man.
“Mr. Warner, how you doing?” The deliveryman places the insulated bag on the glass-topped table. “I got two large supremes for you.” Larges? He must be planning on leftovers.
Michael turns to me. “I went ahead and ordered. Hope that’s okay?”
That’s when I notice that familiar, bug-eyed look on Jose’s face, who begins stammering, “You’re… you’re… you’re… you’re.” He’s hung, like an old vinyl record skipping on a piece of dusty lint. So I do what I always do in these situations, and smile graciously. “Yes. Yes, I am.”
“Wow, man, I thought so!”
Michael watches this entire interchange, a mixed expression of wonder and mild embarrassment on his face as he hustles Jose back out the gate. Once he’s gone, Michael begins to laugh, shaking his head. “You get that a lot?”
“Not nearly so much as when my show was on, but yes.”
“Andrea says it’s in reruns on TNT.”
“Oh, God. Please, please, do not watch it,” I blurt, feeling this bizarre burst of embarrassment at the idea of Michael and Andrea cozying up on their sofa together, watching me frozen in the time warp of syndication. It’s a strangely mortifying thought, as if I’ve just been discovered trying on my mother’s bra, or doing something that I shouldn’t be. In the rush of a moment I feel exposed, my current life and my former one having collided violently.
“Why not?” He’s watching me, confused by my reaction.
“Because it’s a stupid show, for one thing,” I announce firmly. “And because…” Because why? Because then Michael will know what I used to look like, and realize what a disappointment this damaged version really is? My face flushes with instant shame at that thought. “Just don’t, okay?” I reach for the pizza box, ready to help. But my hands are trembling slightly from the unexpected emotion of the conversation, and that’s when it happens. The stupid muscle in my hand—the one severed by Ben’s knife that took so long to heal—gives out on me, sending the pizza flying to the wooden deck floor.
“Dang it!” I cry, as my hand spasms painfully, and I drop to the ground to try and scoop up the pizza. Clutching at my palm, I rub my thumb across the center. “I’m so sorry! God, how stupid!”
“Hey, now. It’s okay. No big deal.” Michael squats down beside me, reaching for my hand in concern. “What happened?” he asks, trying to get a look at it, but I won’t let him, and jerk it back protectively against my chest.