“I’m not cute when I’m not tipsy?”
He just gives me a wry look and has a mouthful of whiskey.
I drink my wine and sulk.
Then I heave a sigh. “I can’t believe he broke up with me on Valentine’s Day.”
“Yeah, that was rough. I am sorry about that.”
“He gave me a necklace this morning. Said he loved me.” I say it sadly.
“He does love you, Beth.”
“I don’t think he does.”
“Of course he does. There are just a few issues that need ironing out.”
“I’d rather hit him with the ironing board.”
This time he laughs openly. “I can’t imagine anyone less likely to commit violence.”
“Are you saying I’m a wuss?”
“No…”
“A walkover?”
“Stop being contrary and take the compliment. I’m saying you’re the nicest person I know, gentle and kind.”
“I’d rather be a sexy seductress.”
“You can’t be both?”
“I don’t know, can I?” I know I’m openly flirting now. I want someone to obliterate the pain of Jude’s rejection. To tell me I’m attractive, and that I haven’t just thrown away my only chance of happiness.
But Archer neatly sidesteps and says, “Drink your wine.”
The glass is still half full but, feeling rebellious, I drink it in one go and hold it out to him. “I want another.”
“This isn’t the answer,” he says firmly.
“You said if I wanted to get drunk, I could get drunk.”
“Not here, in public. You’ll fall off your barstool and crack your head open, and they’ll have to call an ambulance and carry you through the crowd, and then tomorrow you’ll hate me for letting it happen.”
“I’d never hate you,” I scoff, jabbing him with my elbow.
“Ow. Even so. I think you should go home.”
“I’m not going home.” I say it flatly. “I don’t want to see him.”
He frowns. “You’re just tired and emotional. You’ll feel better tomorrow.”
“Stop telling me how I feel. And stop trying to make it better. This isn’t just a freak argument. I’m bitterly unhappy. Can’t you tell the difference?”
He hesitates, and suddenly I feel terribly guilty. He’s Jude’s friend, and my friend, and he’s just trying to mend what he sees as a temporaryglitch. He doesn’t know the full ins and outs of it. I want to make him understand.
“We haven’t slept together for a month.” There, I’ve said it. “He doesn’t want me anymore. We rarely even sleep in the same bed. Does that sound like a perfect relationship?”
