Trespassing(79)

“You’re thinking about all of that as the knife’s flying?”

“It’s one of those situations where you sort out your thoughts later. But long story short: I bat the knife down midair.” He shakes his head. “At least that’s what I thought I did. She’s screaming, and some other guy at the end of the table passes out, and I look down, and the knife is sticking straight up out of my hand.”

“That really happened?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “Did it? But it would explain why I’m thirty-four and retired. Those national chain restaurants have some decent insurance. Also might explain why she never went out with me again, but I digress.”

“You saved her life.”

“Eh.” He shrugs, as if what he proposes he’s done is no big deal.

“You took a knife for her, and she wouldn’t go out with you again?”

“I don’t know if that’s the reason, but no, she didn’t.”

“What a bitch.”

“Are you saying that if I took a knife for you, you’d go out with me again?”

“Well, considering this isn’t a date, I don’t know if I’d go out with you again, but—”

“But we danced . . . you bought my drinks. How is this not a date?”

I stop walking before we hit the ocean, but the surf rolls up on the shore to tickle my toes anyway. “I didn’t pay the tab.”

“Huh. How about that?”

“Did you pay the tab?”

He shrugs. “They know me. I’m probably the only Phillies fan on this island. They’ll bill me later.”

For a few moments, I’m astonished that I was too lit to remember to pay for my dinner—and I most certainly am feeling a little on the warm and dizzy side—and I’m feeling a bit like a degenerate. But when he starts to laugh, I realize he’s kidding.

After drink number three . . . or four . . . I asked for the check and went to the ladies’ room—alone this time—and when I came out, he was waiting there, offering to walk me home. Of course he paid the tab. “That’s twice now,” I say. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Maybe I want another casserole.”

“Because the first one was so incredible.”

“If I’m being honest, I’m not that big on casseroles. I prefer to drink my carbs, to tell you the truth. And I don’t much like the idea of having you indebted to me, but I do like the idea of getting to know you a little better.”

A wave of guilt washes over me with the next ripple of the Atlantic tickling my toes. Am I a married woman? Or a widow? The impermanence of my situation is mind-numbingly irritating. I don’t know if I should be mourning Micah or hating him. Probably, I should be feeling a little bit of both ends of the spectrum, regardless.

I take another step farther into the squishy, white sand and realize my husband has probably walked these shores with another woman.

“I’m saying it because I think you need to hear it,” he says. “I’m on your side. You’ve got a friend in me.”

“I’ve never had many friends.” The moment the words cross my lips, I wish I could rewind time and take it back. It sounds so pathetic, so woe-is-me.

“I don’t believe that for a second.” The way he’s looking at me . . . as if he believes I can hold my own, as if he’s been fooled by the mask of confidence I wore the day I strode right up those plantation-style steps at Goddess Island Gardens and proclaimed to belong there.

I can’t deceive him anymore. He doesn’t deserve it. Or maybe he does—what do I know?—but I know I don’t want to be the one to do it. I can’t be responsible for anyone feeling as wretched and uncertain as I’ve been feeling since Micah’s secrets began revealing themselves to me.

The wind catches my hair and flutters it over my forehead and into my eyes.

Christian brushes the windblown mess aside. “Your daughter looks so much like you.”

I soften for a second. He’s practically daring me to leave all the ugly truths of my life behind for the night, but I’m afraid I’ll only start believing in illusions if I do that.

“She’s beautiful,” he says again.

My cheeks warm with his flattery. If he thinks my daughter looks like me, that must mean he thinks I’m beautiful, too. “Thank you.”

“Whether you have friends or not—”

“I don’t. It’s true.”

“I wouldn’t mind being one.”

“The only friend I ever had—the only one in my adult life, anyway—was my college roommate, and I ended up stealing and marrying her boyfriend.”

He shrugs. “Well, you married the guy. You weren’t just filling a vacancy.”

“A rationalization.”

“But a valid one.”

“What is it with you? I’m trying to tell you I’m a terrible friend and—”

“You’re a terrible friend because some girl had trouble letting go of a guy who didn’t want her? I don’t buy it.”

“No, I’m a terrible friend because I have trouble investing. And now, after everything with Micah, I’m only going to have even more issues.” I gauge his reaction, but he offers only a no-big-deal shrug in response.