What is it about this woman?
What is it about her that makes me want to put myself out there again?
“Good morning,” she says in a pleasant tone that doesn’t match her wary eyes as her sandals tap the pavement.
I hate wary.
I hate that she has any reason to be concerned.
If I’d done my damn job better, she wouldn’t need to worry.
“Morning. Feeling better today?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
I angle another look at her suitcase as she approaches her rental car. Black. Simple. Small. Not much bigger than my overnight bag for away matches during the season.
“You checking out?”
Her nose wrinkles briefly before she blanks her face. “Sometimes smart financial decisions have to be made.”
“Moving in with your parents?” I ask.
She sighs. “Naked Tuesdays, here I come.”
“Naked Tuesdays?”
“Forget I said that.”
No chance. And now I’m imagining Ziggy naked. Maybe she has a secret tattoo. Birthmarks somewhere. Are her nipples light pink or a dusty rose?
Not the time, Webster.
I clear my throat. “There’s not a person on this earth who could forget you said that.”
Her wince is wincey enough that I feel it in my own face. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but why are you here?”
“To apologize.”
“For what? You didn’t do anything wrong. Except possibly judge me for how I ate my chicken. Which, clearly, was a bad idea. I should not have had that chicken. And I will likely never eat chicken again.”
Oh.Food poisoning. That makes sense. Shit. Been there. Ishould’ve checked in with her last night. When I didn’t have her phone number. “I should’ve noticed the situation with the dick-nugget sooner.”
“You’re supposed to be some kind of superhero, tracking everyone at every single minute?”
“That actuallywaswhat I was supposed to be doing. It’s the job.”
She slides me a look as she pops her trunk. “That’s an impossible task.”
“Still mine to do.” I snatch her suitcase and lift it in for her.
She’s traveling light.
And there’s not another suitcase in the car. No boxes. No bags. Not even the empty cloth grocery bags that everyone I know carries in their car these days.
Maybe she’s not checking out.
Regardless, she’s crossed her arms and is frowning at me. “It’s hot, so excuse me for being short, but you don’t need to feel any obligation to apologize to me. Or feel any shred of responsibility on my behalf. What happened was entirely my fault, and you don’t need to worry about me. I’ll be fine.”
