Georgia on Her Mind(9)

“What are you doing?” Chris asks.

“I asked you first.” I wring the water from my slipper and make a beeline for my place, one slipper off, one slipper on. My pink robe flows behind me like a cape.

“I want to talk to you.” He follows me.

“At one in the morning?” This day will just not end. It’s spilling over into tomorrow, which is now technically today.

“I couldn’t sleep.” He’s right on my heels, and I catch a whiff of day-old Versace Blue Jeans. I loved that fragrance until today. Until right now.

“Ah, is your conscience bothering you? Lousy cheater.” I plan to leave him standing on my front porch, stewing in his own guilt with my door slammed in his face, but when I twist the knob the door doesn’t budge. I shove it again.

N-o-o-o. I’m locked out—my keys are still at Mrs. Woodward’s. Hoist by my own petard. I beat the door with my soggy slipper. “I…can’t…believe…this….”

I drop my head against the cold exterior wall. How is this happening to me? What cosmic forces have aligned themselves to trap Macy Ilene Moore between the rock and the hard place without so much as a crowbar to wedge her way out?

Chris puts his hand on my shoulder. “You okay?”

Laugh? Cry? Laugh? Cry? Punch Chris? Definitely, punch Chris. Oh, just one good punch. But I laugh instead.

“Macy, what’s going on?” He grabs my shoulders. “Stop laughing.”

“I’m locked out.”

“And that’s funny why?”

In the cold glow of the porch light I grit my teeth and say, “Actually it’s not funny. I’m just all out of tears for today.”

Oops, spoke too soon. A small reservoir floods my eyes.

Without a word he produces his keys and unlocks the door. I’d forgotten I’d given him one about a month ago, just in case. How ironic for him to rescue me now after squishing my heart like a pesky mosquito.

“What’s so important that you have to come creeping around at one in the morning?” I demand once we are inside. I toss the slipper into the laundry room before collapsing into my chair.

“I’m so sorry about today. I tried to call you, but you never answered.” He lurks on the edge of the living room.

“Long day.” I avoid direct eye contact.

“I’m sorry, Macy, about the restaurant and Kate.”

I flip off my other slipper. Hmm, lint in my toes. I concentrate on cleaning my foot as if that were way more important than what Chris is attempting to communicate.

“I didn’t plan for this to happen. Kate called a few weeks ago. We went out. One thing led to another….”

“Are you in love with her?”

He pauses. Dead giveaway.

“I see.” My mouth goes dry, my stomach contorts and picking the lint no longer seems important.

“I know we had a good thing going. This just caught me.”

“Chris, are you a Christian?” Suddenly I want to know.

He fidgets. “Well, that all depends on what you mean by Christian. I believe certain things.”

Enough said. “Key, please.” I rise out of the chair and hold out my hand.

“What?”

“Key. May I have my house key?”

“O-oh, right. Of course.” He slips the key off the ring. “I hope we can still be friends.”

“I don’t know.”

“Macy, don’t be like this.” Chris’s tired irritation shows.

“You dump me, break my heart and I have to make you feel better about it? Don’t put this on me, Chris.”

In the wee hours of the morning my tiny amount of tolerance seems justified. What do I have to lose? I’ve already lost it all.

“Listen, why don’t we have lunch? We can talk this out when we’re more rational.”

“I am rational. Besides, I’m leaving for Atlanta in a few hours.”

“Atlanta?” I can tell he wants an explanation, but I’m too tired and too crabby. Besides, it’s none of his business.

“Good night, Chris.”

One-thirty. I crawl into bed, spent. Finally the day is done.





Chapter Five




I fade in and out of sleep until my alarm beeps good-morning at four-thirty.

Why me, why now? resonates in my head. I feel shoved back to Go without collecting two hundred dollars. Did I cross wires with someone else’s life?

I rouse slowly and decide to call for a cab, since this is a Casper trip. Why should my pet convertible suffer outside in the elements on account of them?

A hot shower makes me sleepier. I feel thick and stupid as I blow-dry my hair, dress in a pair of khakis and a pale blue oxford and brush my face with foundation.

I finish packing, set my bags and computer by the door, then crash on the couch exhausted until the cabbie arrives.

At five-fifteen the cabbie’s horn beeps me awake. I hurry out and toss my stuff into the backseat.

Across the way, Mrs. Woodward’s kitchen window glows with golden light. I should check on her. Might as well pick up my keys, too. I locked up with Chris’s old spare, but I’m pretty sure it has cooties. I’d rather not travel with it.

“I’ll be right back,” I tell the cabbie, and scurry across the street to rap lightly on Mrs. Woodward’s door.