Without missing a step and still looking ahead, he touched me. “Relax,” he instructed.
My muscles melted under his hand. He removed it once my shoulders were back in place, but the warmth lingered. “Sorry. I’m just—”
“Stressed, I know,” he said. “When was the last time you took a vacation?”
I made a face. “Um.”
“Don’t you ever travel? Everyone likes to vacation.”
“Not Bill.”
“I remember you said that,” he said. “So what?”
“So maybe I don’t like to either.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Vacation is always, like, idealized. It becomes something huge in your mind, as if all the other days of the year are leading up to this one week. You’re going to dine grandly and spend hours in the sun forgetting that you have a real life. Then later, make love sweetly—maybe on the beach, maybe under the stars or by candlelight. But those things don’t happen. Your flight is delayed. You spend the next three days in a state of permanent jetlag. You never remember the sun being as strong as it is. You eat too much and—and you have to undo the top button of your jeans.”
He looked confused, as if that was a new concept to him. “Eat too much?” he asked.
“I never stop thinking about work, no matter how hard I try. I’m always thinking about how the vacation is setting me back. So is Bill. The one trip we took, he brought paperwork with him, and he worked a few hours a day because he had to. I checked my e-mail so I wouldn’t miss anything important. But the thing is, I never did miss anything, because at the end of the day, life goes on without me.”
“You think so?” David asked.
“Yes. The office runs, and life goes on. When I was an assistant editor, I undertook most of my boss Diane’s workload. I always assumed that if I didn’t do it, nobody would. But somehow it got done during that one vacation.”
“And making love?”
“What?”
“There’s the plan to make lovesweetly.”
My cheeks warmed a little. “Oh, you think you will. And you try. But when you’re stuffed, burnt, and exhausted, making love suddenly doesn’t seem so appealing.”
“So it doesn’t happen?” he asked, hope dripping off the question like honey.
“No, it happens,” I said. “But it’s not how you imagined it. On the beach, it’s scratchy and painful. Sand gets places it should never be. And that’s the last time you’ll ever make that mistake.”
“Mistake,” he repeated with a snort. “Sounds like you’re doing it wrong.”
I swallowed hard and slowed as we approached the restaurant where I was meeting Gretchen. “We’re here.”
David peered inside, scanning the crowd. When his eyes returned to mine, they were calm.
I touched my hair. “I probably shouldn’t say this, but . . .”
He arched an eyebrow, an amused smile tugging at his lips.
“I like spending time with you,” I confessed. “I know I’m tense. But around you, I feel . . . better.” I bit my bottom lip. “I shouldn’t have run out on you the way I did back in May. It was childish. I guess what I’m saying is, I’d really like it if we could be friends.”
He looked up at the sky and laughed.
“I’m serious, David. It’s the only way to be in each other’s lives. Can you manage that?”
He broke into a wide, shit-eating grin. “Canyou? If you’ll recall, I was the one who put a stop to things at the house.”
As if I needed reminding. I stuck my hand out between us. “Friends?” I asked.
