An Ex for Christmas(28)

I’m so busy trying to blink back the tears while Doug sips his beer, oblivious to my reaction, that I don’t register that we’re no longer alone.

“How’s it going here?” says the newcomer.

My humiliation fades a little, replaced by surprise.

I turn. Mark?

My best friend shifts his irritated gaze from Doug’s profile to my face, his searching eyes missing nothing. You okay?

I swallow. No.

It’s a silent exchange, but a telling one. Mark’s protective, but he’s always been careful not to cross the line into possessive rescue-the-little-woman territory.

I appreciate that he doesn’t think I need to be treated differently because I’m a woman. But tonight isn’t about me being a woman, it’s about being a person, with feelings that just got hurt. Mark’s not the type of guy to let a friend be hurt, male or female.

“Apologize,” Mark grinds out.

“Great,” Doug murmurs, dragging out the word derisively. “I see you’ve still got your guard dog.”

“Apologize,” Mark snaps again.

Doug gives us both an incredulous look. “For what?”

Mark doesn’t reply, and I realize he didn’t hear Doug’s cruel words; he only knows that they upset me. I feel an intense stab of gratitude for his unflinching loyalty.

I give Doug an angry look of my own. “For implying I was fat.”

Mark lets out a low growl, and Doug holds up his hands innocently with a laugh. “Whoa, what? I don’t think you’re fat, babe, I just said you look good with a few extra pounds. That’s all I meant.”

“Regardless, it was insulting,” I say, reaching for my purse. I drop a couple of twenties on the bar. It’s more than enough to cover my two wines and Doug’s beers plus tip, but I don’t want to wait around to get change.

I stand, and though I appreciate Mark holding out a hand to steady me on my high heels, I don’t need it. My friend’s presence is enough to remind me that there are good guys in this world, and that I don’t need to waste another thought on the lame ones.

“I wish I could say it’s been nice seeing you again,” I tell Doug, “but . . .” I shrug, because I’m literally incapable of forcing any niceties.

Doug’s gaze is somewhere between incredulous and bored as it flicks between me and Mark. Then he shakes his head and reaches for his beer. “Unbelievable. Some things never change.”

I’m totally over the conversation, and touch Mark’s sleeve. Time to go.

He doesn’t move. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks Doug.

Oh no. Oh no no no.

“You know what it means,” Doug snaps.

I rub my forehead. Here we go.

“Enlighten me.”

Doug slowly sets down his beer and stands. “It means that this whole town is sick of you hovering around Kelly like a damned guard dog.”

“Keeping her away from assholes like you is hardly hovering.”

“I’m the asshole?” Doug says, crossing his arms. “You’re seriously going to act like you didn’t do everything possible to ensure she and I broke up?”

Mark steps closer. “That was all you. You’re the one who cheated on her.”

Allegedly, I silently add. Mark told me he thought Doug was cheating, but Doug was adamant he hadn’t. In the end, we broke up not because I was convinced he’d cheated but because I wasn’t willing to take Doug’s word over Mark’s.

You see why this whole situation is awkward? I trust my best friend, but he never would tell me why he was so sure about Doug’s cheating.

“Kelly and I were never exclusive,” Doug says.

My gaze flies to him. Wait, what? That’s news to me.

“You and Erika were though, right? Oh, wait . . .”

I’m so startled when Doug goes flying backward that I let out a yelp, but it gets lost beneath the cacophony of breaking glass as Doug’s beer glass shatters on the ground.

Doug catches himself on the barstool, a hand to his mouth, as he gives Mark an incredulous look. “Seriously, dude?”

I too look at Mark, watching as his right hand returns to his side, still in a fist. He’s breathing hard, and he looks as angry as I’ve ever seen him.

Time to go. Way past time to go.

“Come on,” I say quietly, wrapping my fingers around Mark’s arm. “He’s not worth it.”

I glance warily at Doug, but he seems more interested in keeping the blood from his lip from dripping on his blue sweater than he does in fighting back. Although I’m guessing that’s more from the fact that he knows he can’t win than from any “bigger man” sensibilities.

Doug’s relatively fit, but slim to the point of being lanky. There’s exactly zero chance he’d win in a fight against Mark. Especially when my best friend has hot murder in his eyes.

About what? I wonder. I’m sure a little bit of it was over Doug making me cry, but I’m also pretty sure there’s more to it.

One of the waitresses shoos us out of the way to clean up the spilled beer and broken glass. Mark runs a hand through his hair and takes a deep breath.

Then he adds another twenty to the cash I already left on the bar, and gives a nod of apology toward the bartender. Another twenty he hands to the waitress, bending down and murmuring to her.