“Mmm.” He wrestles with the wine bottle and corkscrew I hand him, pouring us each some wine in a plastic cup.
“For real,” I say around a mouthful of pasta once I’ve loaded both our plates. “Why are we car-picnicking?”
“You’re supposed to think it’s romantic.”
I swear as I drop a piece of pasta on the passenger seat and pick it up with my napkin. “Very.”
“I don’t like eating in front of my employees,” he says after a moment.
He sounds a little embarrassed by the admission, and I glance over. “Why?”
“I don’t know. Most of the recipes are mine, half the time what I cook is mine. It feels . . . weird eating it with an audience.”
Vulnerable. That’s what he means by “weird.” It feels vulnerable.
“You’re eating in front of me.”
“Yeah, well . . .” He gestures with his fork toward my boobs, and I glance down to see a glob of cheese.
I sigh and get out yet another napkin and clean up the mess, although mostly I just smear oil around. “I’m usually very elegant on dates.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see him go still, then give me a half smile. “That what this is? A date?”
“Well, not a very good one,” I say, gesturing around us. “There’s no candles and music.”
He reaches out, punches the radio. Nancy Wilson’s iconic “What Are You Doing New Year’s Eve” starts playing.
“Better?” he asks.
I smile and dig back into my pasta. “Much.”
We eat in companionable, easy silence. The food’s delicious, the wine’s amazing. The only thing that keeps this moment from being perfect . . .
I set my plate aside and turn to Mark. “Erika talked to me.”
He shrugs and spears a tomato with his fork. “She’s a bartender. That’s her job.”
“No, I mean, like . . . cornered me in the bathroom and talked to me.”
Mark’s fork stalls halfway to his mouth. Then he drops his fork and sets the plate up on the dash with an annoyed groan. “I don’t suppose she just wanted to borrow lipstick?”
“I think she still has feelings for you,” I say quietly.
“Yeah.”
I feel a little pang at the easy, matter-of-fact way he says it. “Has she said anything about wanting to get back together?”
“Yeah.”
Another pang, stronger this time. “Have you thought about it?”
He doesn’t say anything, and it feels like a knife in the stomach, even though I know I should be happy for him if that’s what he wants.
“She cheated on you,” I say, because the thought of my friend going back to that sort of relationship . . .
He takes a drink of the wine. “It’s more complicated.”
“Um, you told me you caught her and Doug in your bed. That’s brutally simple.”
“Yeah, and it sucked, but she and I were . . . I’d broken up with her a couple days earlier.”
“What?” I turn in my seat to face him more fully. “Why didn’t you mention that the other day when you were bashing Doug’s face in?”
“I already told you I didn’t punch Doug because of what he did to me.”
No. He did it because of what Doug did to me.
“So you and Erika weren’t even together.”
He exhales and rests his head on the headrest. “It’s complicated. I’d told her I wasn’t sure things were working out. She was pissed, asked that I take some time to think about it. I reluctantly agreed, but then the thing with Doug happened, and, well . . . that made it easy.”
I wince at Erika’s misstep. “She begged you to reconsider and then slept with someone else?”
“She was hurting,” he says with a shrug. “Don’t love it, but I get it.”
My eyebrows lift. “That’s very . . . big of you.”
He turns and gives a slight smile. “You seem surprised.”
“Just trying to put the pieces together.”
He reaches over and picks up the plastic container holding the brownies. “Want?”
I do, and yet I’m pretty sure he’s trying to distract me, and I’m not having it.
“Did your breaking up with Erika have anything to do with me?” I ask.
His arm goes still, his head snapping up. “What?”
“It’s nothing,” I say in a rush. “Just something Erika said, but she was probably just weird because she figured out we were sleeping together—”
“What did she say?”
I swallow. “Something about how you’re only in relationships when I’m in relationships. And that when I’m single, you’re single.”
He shrugs. “If that’s true, it’s coincidence.”
“Right,” I agree quickly, relieved by his nonchalance. “Totally.”
If I were smart, I’d distract us both with brownies, but instead I have to go and open my mouth one more time, because I have to know . . .
“After you and I are done with . . . whatever this is, do you think you and Erika will get back together?”
“I don’t know, Kell,” he says, wrenching the lid off the brownie container. His tone is both tired and annoyed. “Does it matter?”
He meets my eyes as he asks the last question, and I wonder if it’s rhetorical or if he’s really asking me.
Would it matter if he started dating his ex-girlfriend again? Really dating, not just hooking up like he and I are doing? Would it matter if they got back together and stayed together? If they got married? Had babies?
Something terrifying and sour rips through me as I force my brain to keep traveling down that path. Because even if it’s not Erika, it’ll be someone else. One day Mark and I won’t be single at the same time. One day he won’t be single ever again, but in a relationship with someone who has a ring on her finger. Who gets to wake up beside him every morning and tease him every night. Who gets to taste-test all of his recipes, whose Christmas tree he’ll show her how to cut down . . .
“Kelly?”
I look up at him. He’s waiting for my response. A cavalier quip is on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t make it come out.
Instead I reach out, setting my palm against his cheek. “The only thing that matters is that you’re happy.”
His eyes search mine for a moment, then he surprises me by reaching up and pulling my hand away from his face and planting a quick, sweet kiss against my palm.
“Brownie?” he asks, turning his attention to dessert.
I smile at the simple question. At the wonderful simplicity of us. “Yeah. Yeah, I want a brownie.”
And I’m terrified I want so much more than that.
December 23, Saturday Afternoon
“Well? What do we think?” I ask, turning back and forth in front of the full-length mirror in my room.
There’s no response.
I turn and look at the male lounging on the bed, who’s paying no attention to me. Apparently I can’t compete with the reindeer squeaky toy.
“Rigby, baby.” The dog lifts his head and wags his stubby tail. “Am I looking adorable or veering toward absurd?”
I hold my arms out to the side to show off my elf costume, turning back and forth so the dog can get the full effect.
Rigby gives me a sad look and rests his snout on the comforter, tail wagging even faster.
I sigh. “I was afraid of that. Is it too tight?”
I look over my shoulder at my butt in the mirror.