You Deserve Each Other(50)

I look at his smug, stupid face, and BOOM. The bottle combusts, releasing word shrapnel in the form of screamed nonsense.

“What was that?” He cups a hand behind his ear. “Was that … what you get for destruction of my property?”

“I didn’t break your phone on purpose! You know how much I LOVE THAT DUMB FUCKING TREE.”

He tips his head back and laughs, harder than he’s ever laughed at anything: sharp and surprised and peppered with necessary gasps for air. I think I spy a tear running down his pinkened face. I want to throw a rock at him but I can’t move, I’m so fascinated by this strange and magnificent new laugh. The hood of his car dazzles with sun, which pings off the gaudy diamond on my left hand and spins light into my eyes. I hate this damned ring. It’s a symbol of possession, of love and eternity, declaring to the world that I’ve been taken over. The man who gave it to me is still laughing, reflected in the side mirror as he winds out of sight, out of our lawless frontier and back into the real world we’re so detached from.





Nicholas isn’t laughing anymore when he storms through the door after work. I’m lounging on the couch in mismatched socked feet and a cherry sucker in my mouth, channel-flipping with glazed eyes. He’s sharp and ready for blows, while I’m about to nod off. I’ve got half a second to reach the number he’s dialed up to if I want to be any good in this fight we’re about to have.

Excellent. It’s been getting boring around here.

He strides over to stand between my feet, eyes flashing. His hair should look awful, but it’s raining outside so it’s doing this unfortunately sexy thing instead, falling across his forehead in damp, gleaming waves. I narrow my eyes and bite down hard on the candy. “What’s up?” I drawl.

“Give me your phone.”

I make a sound like Pah! “What? No.”

“You ruined mine, so it’s only fair that I get yours.”

“I didn’t ruin your phone, dum-dum. I have no idea how a bowl fell on it. Maybe you should stop putting bowls in your bed.”

He pats my pockets, which makes me giggle. “Where is it?”

I shove him off, but he just starts grabbing at the couch cushions. I’ve made myself a nice little nest of peanut butter chocolate bonbons, blankets, Kit Kat wrappers, a paper plate from the Toaster Strudel I ate for lunch, and two of Nicholas’s watches. I’ve been gradually removing their links to make the fit tighter but forgot to put them back in his room.

“All day!” he exclaims. “The phone rings but I can’t swipe on calls. My mom can’t reach me on my cell anymore, so who do you suppose she calls next?”

“Hold on, let me guess.”

He doesn’t let me guess. Rude. “The office! And not my personal extension, either, since I have my phone set to voicemail. She’s been calling the front desk nonstop over every goddamn thought that wanders into her head. Wasn’t so bad when I had a working cell phone, because I could send her to voicemail and text back my replies. Short and simple. But no! Instead I get Ashley running in to interrupt me every five minutes, crying because she knows she’s not supposed to interrupt me for unimportant crap like this but my mom won’t give her a choice. ‘Dr. Rose, your mother wants me to send her a PDF of your calendar so she can mark down what time you’re taking her shopping this Saturday.’ ‘Dr. Rose, your mother’s on the line again. She needs you to come by after work and tell your father he has to see a doctor about a cyst on his back.’ ‘Dr. Rose, your mother wants to know if you’ll have time on your lunch break to go find those walnuts you brought to her Christmas party in 2011. Her friend Joyce needs them ASAP.’”

“Sounds like a busy day for Dr. Rose,” I snigger.

“I looked unprofessional in front of everyone! I could lose patients over this.”

“And yet you’re blowing up at me instead of, say, the person who’s been calling your office all day?” I pop a bonbon in my mouth and give him a look like Yeah, I make way more sense than you.

“I expect you to be the bigger person! You know Mom doesn’t understand. I tried to tell her she couldn’t call the front desk unless it was an emergency, but everything’s an emergency to my mother.”

He growls, messing up his hair. He’s wearing his navy blazer today and wow, the effect is quite something. His eyes are demon-black, and I’m not hating the whole day’s-worth-of-scruff thing he’s got going on. Nicholas has a very nice jaw; when it’s lightly shadowed like it is now, coupled with the slate-gray frames of his glasses, he reminds me of a tormented English literature professor who’s just hit rock bottom.

I am learning at this very moment in time that tormented English literature professor who’s just hit rock bottom is my specific type. He doesn’t even notice me checking him out because he’s busy hunting for my phone amid a sea of candy wrappers.

The inappropriate timing of my epiphany is classic Naomi Westfield. If Nicholas knew what I was thinking right now he’d get so frustrated with me that he’d probably get on an airplane and leave the country.

“Your first mistake was expecting me to be the bigger person,” I reply. “Deborah gives you shit twenty-four-seven and you shower her with attention. It gets results! You know what doesn’t get results? Being understanding all the time and saying ‘Whatever you need, babe. Walk all over me! Forget I’m even here.’ Being the bigger person gives you permission to put my feelings second every time. I have to be understanding. I have to be patient, and keep my mouth shut while you coddle her. So I’m going to change tactics, because continuing to do what I’ve been doing while expecting different results is stupid. Debbie’s playbook works. Being a whiny pain in the ass works. Maybe I should start calling the front desk, too.”