Sheesh. “I didn’t mean you should do hook-ups!”
Holy mother of all hormones! Someone hand me a shovel, so I can dig myself deeper into this hole.
She’s riffling through her handbag and then pulls out her phone and starts tapping at the screen.
“What are you doing?” I yell. I’m losing my damn patience with this woman.
“Tinder.”
I can feel my fury burn all the way up to the tips of my ears. “Put your phone away, Elle,” I growl.
“No.”
She starts walking in the opposite direction so that I have to shut down the engine and jump out of the car.
“Where are you going?”
“Home.”
“Get in the car!”
She takes several steps toward me with that diva walk she did when we first met, but rather than opening the door to get back in she points at me.
“I’ve changed my mind about you, Paul.”
I let out a long sigh. “Yeah?”
“You aren’t good.”
I freeze in place as she stares me down. Is she fucking serious with this? This feels like more than just hormones gone haywire. Her expression tells me that she’s beyond pissed off and ready to draw blood.
“You’re a bad man.”
“Really? So now I’m bad?”
She shrugs half-heartedly like she’s undecided but she’s also not taking it back. Doesn’t she know that she’s gone way too far? I’m pretty sure I deserve more than this hormone-driven shit show.
She may not really mean it but she’s hit my sore spot. She could’ve taken a dull knife and carved a hole in my chest and it would’ve hurt less. Is it my turn to get dramatic back because I feel like I can’t breathe? I’ve tried so hard to be what she’s needed me to be, so what the hell? She’s the last person I expected to knock me down, and bring into question what I’ve feared about myself all along.
I turn and look away, staring down the deserted street. Everything looks colorless and I shiver even though I’m not cold.
What can I possibly say to her? I glance back to see if she has any remorse for what she’s said, but she’s already halfway down the street. My heart sinks down low. It’s hard keeping it suspended in my chest when she’s taken part of it with her.
Her words echo over and over.
If I’m a bad man, then I do what a bad man would.
I let her go.
Chapter Twelve
THE WRAPAROUND
On Tuesday Ma calls and I steel myself as I pick up the phone. Ma’s got stellar skills for knowing when something’s up.
“Hey, Ma.”
“How’s my boy? Are you having a busy day?”
“Yeah, super busy.” So can we get off the phone now?
“And how’s our Elle?”
Our Elle? Oh, it’s more serious than I thought. They’re attached to Elle and her baby now, so how do I tell them that Elle went nuts and decided I’m not good enough to be an uncle anymore?
I can’t handle the onslaught, so I lie.
“She’s good. She really enjoyed dinner the other night.”
“Yes, she was so sweet about it when she called the next day to thank me.”
I desperately want to ask how she sounded but it would give me away.
“She told me how kind you’ve been to her, and what a wonderful man you are. It made me proud, Paul.”
“She said that? Really?”
“Indeed she did. You sound surprised.”
“I guess I am. Sometimes I make her mad.”
“No! You?” she says in a highly exaggerated tone.
“Okay now,” I warn.
“You know what? She also said that she doesn’t know how you put up with her.”
“Sometimes it’s not so easy.”
“I know, but I still told her not to be so hard on herself. When you’re pregnant everything becomes emotional and dramatic. Things will calm down.”
“Will they?”
“Yes, they will.”
“So I’m wondering, how did Dad deal with this with you?”
“He just let me be, have my fits and then he would bring me flowers. Why don’t you take Elle some flowers tonight? Nothing like flowers to smooth out the rough edges.”
“I’m not her husband, or even her boyfriend.”
“I know that, but you’re her close friend, aren’t you?”
My mom is clairvoyant and I sense she knows Elle and I had a blow-out. It would be creepy if it weren’t so cool. Either she’s psychic or Elle told her so.
“Got it. Thanks, Ma.”
“You’re a good man, Paulie.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
“I do.”
The florist seems to understand completely. I sense I’m not the first man asking for an apology bouquet.
“Let’s make this happy!” she says enthusiastically as she meanders, collecting stems from tub after tub of colorful flowers.
I nod absentmindedly when she shows me the assortment she’s gathered. I don’t even ask the price. If this warms up Elle to me, it’s priceless.
“So what did you do?” she asks as she winds ribbon around the wrapped flowers.
“I’m not sure,” I reply honestly.
“Well it can’t be that bad if you don’t know why. I bet this will fix it.”
“You really think so?”
“I do.”
When I arrive at Elle’s place her car is in the driveway but she doesn’t answer the door. Wondering if she’s napping again, I go through the side gate to check to see if the back French doors are open. To my surprise I find her kneeling on her lawn messing around with the sprinkler head. I’m immediately bothered. What? I’m not good enough to fix her sprinklers anymore?
I move a little closer and then stop to watch her. Her tongue is poking out the side of her mouth as she twists the head and pushes on it, then pulls it back out to study it.
“What are you doing?” I call out.
She looks up with wide eyes and her mouth agape. Her attention then shifts down to the flowers and she sits up straight. “Fixing stuff. What are you doing here?”
“Oh you know, I happened to be in the neighborhood . . .” I give her a crooked smile.
“Are those for me?” she asks in an unsteady voice.
I’m tempted to tease her and say that ‘no, these are for another woman,’ but then I remind myself that that kind of humor got me in this trouble in the first place. So instead I hold the bouquet out in front of me. “Yes, they’re for you.”
Instead of smiling her lower lip quivers and she blinks rapidly. “I don’t deserve any flowers, I should be giving you flowers.”
I watch a tear skate down her cheek and I shake my head.
“I don’t want flowers, Elle. I just want us to get along. Besides, I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you, too.”
She gives me a soft smile and I feel a surge of relief and genuine happiness to see her again. It’s just been a few days but I’ve missed her a lot. I step right up to where she’s working and hand her the flowers.
“They’re so beautiful. Thank you,” she says as she accepts them. I kneel down to examine what she’s working on. Lying next to the sprinkler set-up is a mangled head. It looks like someone went after it with a machete.
“The gardener again?” I ask.
She nods. “I don’t know how he even does it. Like we talked about last time, he must have some seriously repressed anger issues.”
“I’ll say.” I pick it up and examine it before glancing over at her. “So speaking of anger, are you still mad at me?”
“You? No! I’m mad at myself.”
“Well, if you’re not mad at me, why didn’t you call me?”
Her gaze drops down. “It’s complicated.”
She keeps twisting the new sprinkler head in her hands so I take it from her, and screw it in place. “Done.”
I stand back up and brush off my jeans, before offering my hand to her. “You got any beer inside?”
“Sure,” she says and I follow her into the house.