I hooked my only useful arm under her hips and hauled her out, setting her on her feet. She waved a hot pink bra by way of explanation. Then, "Got stuck. Couldn't get it un-stuck. Resorted to desperate measures."
I ran a glance over her body, intending to check for injuries but lingering over jeans and a pale, pale yellow t-shirt she'd changed into since leaving the office. Her hair was tied back in a low ponytail that showed off her blue streak. "Evidently."
She wagged a finger—and the bra—at me. "Don't do that. No up-and-down eyes. I'm not having that with you right now."
After banging the dryer door shut, she marched down the hall to the guest bedroom with me following close behind.
Zelda busied herself with a basket of fresh laundry on the bed, angling her back toward me when she noticed me in the doorway. "I need you to stop what you're doing and come with me."
"Ashville." She sounded tired—or tired of me. "I'm busy here."
I clutched the doorframe to hold myself steady. This would've been so much easier if I'd pulled her out of the dryer and then immediately put her in a car with me. "Pleasecome with me. It's important."
"You traffic in importance," she replied. "Forgive me if I'm suffering a touch of importance fatigue."
"You need to let me apologize," I said, knowing precisely how much it would tickle her into responding. Sometimes, I was an asshole and sometimes, she liked that.
"As a matter of fact, I do not." She shook out a towel with a vigorous snap. "And I believe I'm entitled to set the terms and conditions when I'm the one owed the apology."
"I can accept that," I hedged. "But only if you'll let me buy you some pancakes first."
She snapped out another towel. "I know you're all creative with the dirty talk but you've lost me on that one. Not to mention, I'm not having sex with you right now."
Right nowwas a world apart fromnot ever.
"I'll admit that makes me sad because I'm sure I could apologizethoroughlyif you were interested," I said.
She laughed, a real, true, gorgeous Zelda laugh. "I'm not."
"Right, well." I shoved my hands in my pockets. "We have to leave now. For pancakes."
I left Zelda there with her whip-cracked laundry to change out of my suit and tie. By the time I stepped out of my closet in jeans and a polo, she was stationed in the middle of my bedroom with her hands fixed on her hips.
"I don't get it," she said. "Where are we going?"
I slipped my wallet into my back pocket. "You'll find out when we get there." I grabbed her hand, grinning when she didn't swat me away. "Let's go, love."
Zelda allowed me to hold her hand as we rode the elevator to the street level and settled into the car I'd ordered. She positioned herself in the middle of the bench seat knowing she'd be pressed up against me which was the equivalent of her lowering the drawbridge and allowing me back into her good graces. Neither of us spoke as the car inched through traffic in the Theater District and Chinatown.
I didn't know whether we both tended toward this independently or it was a product of our relationship but there were often times when we didn't need to speak. Sometimes it was pensive, like tonight, and the silence settled around us like heavy woolen cloaks while we worked out our problems within ourselves and the worlds we knew. Other times it was a quiet that required no words because we'd replaced them with touch and the cellular connection we'd formed. Then there were the golden moments, the ones we often shared at work when we understood and anticipated each other without any form of language. It was like synchronized swimming or a perfectly executed pass run.
This silence tested my limits. More than once, I nearly blurted out, "Promise me you're not actually quitting."
By force of will alone, I survived the ride without doing that but only because her coming along and all but snuggling up beside me seemed like positive signs.
When we climbed out of the car, Zelda said, "This is a diner." She stared up at the authentically retro South Street Diner. "You actually meant…pancakes?"
"Yes." I reached for her hand again. "You said you love blueberry pancakes and cheesy omelets and crispy bacon but you never have time to make that and—and I've fucked up everything so you have to let me give you the things you love."
She shot a longing look at the diner's shiny aluminum trim and the giant coffee cup perched on the roof. "What I have to do is require you to fight fair," she said. "Pancakes can't change that limit."
"They can't," I agreed. "Let's get a table. I want to talk through this and I want to hear your plan to staff up Dad's office."
After a pause that lived in my chest for an eternity, she asked, "These are good pancakes?"
"Excellent," I replied.
She folded her arms over her chest and scowled like she was posing for a reality cooking competition. "I'll be the judge of that."
