His expression is classic guy: uncomfortable. “I didn’t—” He shoves his hands back into his pockets and rolls his shoulders. “I didn’t want you to be upset.”
“But you told me he cheated. Why not just tell me the whole story?”
“I figured the fewer details the better. I already knew firsthand that having an actual mental picture of your significant other cheating is a hell of a lot different than coping with the concept.”
I feel a fierce stab of anger at what he had to see, and about what he’s been carrying around. I step forward and wrap my arms around him, pressing my cheek to his chest. “I’m sorry.”
I feel him shrug. “It was a long time ago.”
“Yeah, but you loved her. It had to suck.”
He’s still for a long moment, then his arms lift and he slowly returns the hug. “That’s not why it sucked.”
I frown, not following. “What?”
His arms squeeze just a bit tighter. “It sucked, but not because it was my girlfriend cheating on me. Because it was your boyfriend cheating on you.”
I lean back slightly so I can look up at him. “Doug was barely my boyfriend. We’d been together for a few months. And quite honestly, given the guy I met tonight, I think I probably dodged a bullet.”
“Still shouldn’t have happened,” he says quietly.
“No. Not to either of us.”
He shrugs, and I step back. “You and Erika are still friends. You were going to have her watch our dog, who’s fine, by the way. How can you, knowing that? Having that memory?”
Mark flinches. “Do we have to do girl-talk?”
I punch his shoulder. “Yes.”
“Fine. Can we do it in the car, where it’s warm?”
Oh. Right. My anger at Erika and Doug had warmed me up for a while, but it’s still freaking cold outside.
I let him hoist me into the car, and the second he comes around to the driver’s side and starts the engine, I turn the heat on full blast and turn to face him. “Speak.”
“About?”
“Don’t make me punch you again.”
Mark puts the truck in reverse, and only when we’re on the main road does he answer me. “I was mad at Erika for a while, but anger fades more quickly than pain, and after a few weeks I realized . . . there was no pain.”
I frown. “How is that possible? You were together for years. You asked her to move in with you.”
“Eh. More like I gave her a key to keep her from getting pissy when I worked later than expected and she couldn’t get into the house.”
“She could have borrowed my key. I live, like, ten steps away.”
He cuts me a glance. “How well do you think that would have gone over?”
“What do you mean? Erika and I got along.”
“Only because you make everyone get along with you, whether they want to or not.”
I narrow my eyes and read between the lines. “Are you saying she didn’t like me?”
“I’m sure she liked you fine,” he says, nudging down the heat a bit. “She just didn’t like our relationship. Or the fact that you live in my backyard. And that you had a key when she didn’t.”
“Oh.” I turn and look out the window. “I guess I can get that.”
I fall quiet as I think everything over, and Mark surprises me by turning on the radio. Surprises me even more when it’s Christmas music.
I turn toward him and whisper, “I knew you were a closet fan.”
“Shut up.”
I smile and turn back to the window as “O Holy Night” echoes through the truck’s cab. It’s a pretty version—one I don’t recognize that’s vaguely jazzy.
As we pull up to Mark’s garage, another thought pops into my head. “What were you doing at the bar in the first place? I thought you had to work.”
“I did work. I wrapped up early.”
“Been doing that a lot lately. Going in late, wrapping up early.”
“So?” His voice is irritated as he pulls into the garage and punches the button to close the garage door against the winter weather.
Neither of us moves, and I wait until the whir of the automatic garage door stops, leaving us in dark silence. “Is something going on with you?” I finally ask.
“No.”
He opens the truck door and climbs out. I inhale for patience, waiting until he goes into the house before getting out of the car myself. His response is no less than I expected. He’s not a talker. But I know I’m right. He’s been acting different—just slightly. In ways only a best friend who lives next door would know.
I’m patient with Mark’s quirks. He’s patient with mine. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t getting to a boiling point with him. He and I always harp on each other a little, but this hot/cold thing we’ve been doing isn’t like us.
He’s never been Mr. Chatty, but neither does he usually just walk away in the middle of a conversation, and he’s done that a few times lately. And while he’s always protective, he doesn’t usually storm my dates.
I should go home. He’s not in a mood to talk. Clearly. Pushing him won’t work, and yet . . .
I shove open the door to his house, and instead of (wisely) going out the back door to my own house, I go from room to room looking for him.
He’s not downstairs. Hearing a thump upstairs, I head that way. Rigby wags at me from the top of the stairs, and I set my purse down, taking time to greet the dog on the landing and deliver a good belly rub before going to confront my best friend.
Mark’s in his bathroom, brushing his teeth. He’s already changed for bed, dressed in a tight-fitting white undershirt and blue flannel pants slung low on his hips.
When I glance back up, he meets my eyes in the mirror, seemingly resigned to my presence.
He spits and rinses, and after putting his toothbrush back in the holder he turns to face me. “What?”
“You know what.”
He says nothing.
I cross my arms. “You’re being a jerk. You shut down every time I try to talk to you, you’re punching people and won’t even tell me why, and then in between all that you’re nice, and I don’t . . . I don’t . . .”
“What? You don’t what?” His eyes are stormy and unreadable.
I blow out a breath. “It’s Christmas, Mark. It’s not the time to be pissy.”
He lets out a little laugh and runs a hand over the back of his neck. “I’m not being pissy.”
“You are, a little,” I say with a smile. “Is it Erika? Are you . . . thinking of rekindling things with her again? Is that why you punched Doug now, after all this time?”
Rigby barges into the bathroom with a bone in his mouth, and Mark looks down at the dog, leaning down to give him a pat when Rigby presses against his shins.
“I’ve had stuff with the restaurant on my mind,” he says finally, not looking at me. “I’ve been wanting for months to pull back, to be less hands-on and let my staff grow. It’s harder than I expected.”
I soften a little, relieved to have gotten something out of him. Maybe relieved, too, that he didn’t mention Erika’s name. Although neither did he answer my question about whether they were rekindling things. And Erika works at the restaurant, which could mean . . .
“I’m sorry,” I say, leaning against the doorjamb. “I know it’s your baby. Letting go is hard, even if it’s for the best for everyone.”