“I don’t want to go home.”
“What do you want? Maybe you could shout at me. Go crazy, I deserve it.” And then she’d leave him and he’d regret it forever.
“I don’t want to shout at you. You already feel bad enough. I’m hungry, I’m warming the pizza.”
She wanted pizza? That didn’t make sense. He put his bag down, but stayed where he was. His phone rang and he let it go through to his message bank. Nothing was more urgent than trying to understand this.
“The best part of my day was watching you kick ass with Madden, knowing you wanted to be in my arms, and your texts. Everything else was shitty.”
She lowered her eyes and smiled. He could smell the pizza and his stomach growled. Martha sauntered in, sprawled in the patch of floor between them and proceeded to clean her face like she did after she’d eaten.
Derelie shrugged. “She was still hungry.”
Martha would vomit later and he’d have to clean up after her. There was no one to clean up after him. “You should take the pizza with you.”
“Why would I...oh, Jack.” Derelie stepped over Martha and put her hands to his chest. “You had a bad day, you lost your temper and stomped around. No one got hurt. I’m not going to stop loving you because you act like a dick sometimes.”
Had he not had the door at his back he’d have been on the floor. His whole life had taught him people close to you would turn away if you were difficult.
“You don’t mean that.”
She brought her hands up to his shoulders. “I knew you could be a dick before I let you see me naked.”
“You’re not leaving me.”
“Over feeding Martha? Think I’ll stay.”
It wasn’t about Martha. Why didn’t she see that?
“Question. Would you rather stand with your back against the door or eat pizza?” She took his hand. “Answer.” She waited and, when he didn’t respond, said, “The answer, for a lifetime of kisses and staring into each other’s eyes, is—pizza.”
He let her lead him into the kitchen, put a plate in front of him and served him a slice of pie. When Martha started yakking, he followed her around the apartment, watched her vomit up chunks of undigested slop then cleaned up after her. He didn’t check his phone until he’d given Derelie a ration of kisses, and stared into her eyes for the sheer amazement that she’d stayed.
When he did, it was to discover Henri Costa was in New York, he had what Jack needed and he wanted to meet.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Derelie spent the night alone in Jack’s bed because Martha abandoned the bedroom to sleep on the empty pizza box and Jack took the last flight out to New York to chase his story.
He wasn’t around to see her firefighters duke it out with her penguins for top spot in the most-read list. Phil was. He sent an email, two words: Good job. It made her buzz with pride. Not long ago she’d have printed that out and taped it to the wall above her bed, but she hadn’t slept in her own bed for weeks and didn’t intend to start again.
After work she went back to her apartment to pick up mail and her brown boots, and to search for a missing blue glove. She needed to give notice. She couldn’t find the glove. Why did she always seem to lose only the left hand ones?
Would you rather lose one glove of each pair you buy or witness your lover blow his cool once in a while? She’d choose a frosty left hand for all of winter in preference to missing out on any time with Jack, even when he was coiled tight enough to snap.
The only thing that worried her was how he’d reacted after their spat. As if a cold pizza and an argument was a much bigger deal, as if it had been enough for her to pack a bag and leave. He’d been quiet afterward, withdrawn but not distant, if his make-it-up-to-her kisses were anything to go by. It was something to talk about when he got home.
A very dead peace lily hit the trash but the job of completely emptying the refrigerator could wait—she had time to make the late yoga class and no fear of running into God’s gift to yoga since she no longer cared what he thought, was slightly embarrassed she ever had.
Back at Jack’s place with Martha and a tub of frozen mango yogurt she’d earned by virtuous sweat and life-affirming contortion, she sat on the couch and checked the time. An hour until the print deadline. She itched to call Jack, but he hadn’t responded to texts and he was obviously busy and she didn’t want to be that girlfriend who was annoying.
Calling home was a useful distraction.
“Has he seen you ugly cry yet?” Mom asked.
“No, but we had our first argument as a couple last night.”
“Oh, you have to have those, honey.”