An Ex for Christmas(31)

He’s not downstairs. Hearing a thump upstairs, I head that way. Rigby wags at me from the top of the stairs, and I set my purse down, taking time to greet the dog on the landing and deliver a good belly rub before going to confront my best friend.

Mark’s in his bathroom, brushing his teeth. He’s already changed for bed, dressed in a tight-fitting white undershirt and blue flannel pants slung low on his hips.

When I glance back up, he meets my eyes in the mirror, seemingly resigned to my presence.

He spits and rinses, and after putting his toothbrush back in the holder he turns to face me. “What?”

“You know what.”

He says nothing.

I cross my arms. “You’re being a jerk. You shut down every time I try to talk to you, you’re punching people and won’t even tell me why, and then in between all that you’re nice, and I don’t . . . I don’t . . .”

“What? You don’t what?” His eyes are stormy and unreadable.

I blow out a breath. “It’s Christmas, Mark. It’s not the time to be pissy.”

He lets out a little laugh and runs a hand over the back of his neck. “I’m not being pissy.”

“You are, a little,” I say with a smile. “Is it Erika? Are you . . . thinking of rekindling things with her again? Is that why you punched Doug now, after all this time?”

Rigby barges into the bathroom with a bone in his mouth, and Mark looks down at the dog, leaning down to give him a pat when Rigby presses against his shins.

“I’ve had stuff with the restaurant on my mind,” he says finally, not looking at me. “I’ve been wanting for months to pull back, to be less hands-on and let my staff grow. It’s harder than I expected.”

I soften a little, relieved to have gotten something out of him. Maybe relieved, too, that he didn’t mention Erika’s name. Although neither did he answer my question about whether they were rekindling things. And Erika works at the restaurant, which could mean . . .

“I’m sorry,” I say, leaning against the doorjamb. “I know it’s your baby. Letting go is hard, even if it’s for the best for everyone.”

“Yeah.”

Rigby rolls onto his back, and it’s Mark’s turn to give his belly a rub, the dog’s stub of a tail going crazy at the attention.

“Want to get your mind off it?” I ask.

His head snaps up. “Meaning?”

I blink in surprise at his intensity. “I just mean that I’m going into the city tomorrow. Doing a little last-minute shopping. I still have to get Christmas gifts for my parents. And for you. I could use the company.”

I expect him to say no. Mark hates Manhattan. He hates shopping even more. Instead he stands and considers. “There is a new restaurant in the East Village I’ve been wanting to check out. It’ll be hard to get reservations last minute, but I know the guy—he might be able to squeeze us in, if only at the bar.”

“Well, this works out perfectly,” I say, giving an excited little clap. “I actually have dinner plans, and you’ll have better luck squeezing in at the bar if it’s just you, and—”

“Hold up. You want me to go with you into New York. Right before Christmas. Where it’s tourist central. All while you’ve made other plans for dinner?”

Whoops. When he puts it that way . . .

“It’s just . . .” I swallow, nervous about explaining, but not really knowing why I’m nervous. Other than his glare, that is. “It’s just that Stephen’s in the city. You know that financial guy I dated a few months ago? He’s free for dinner, and—”

“Still with the fucking list?” Mark snaps. “After tonight, you’re still holding on to the delusion that some crazy lady in a train station knows your future better than you do?”

I throw up my hands. “And just like that, asshole Mark is back. Look, I know you think it’s stupid. You think all that stuff is stupid. But don’t you get that I have to at least try? If I don’t, I’ll always wonder. So if you don’t want me to talk to you about my ex list, you can just say so—”

“I don’t want you to talk to me about your ex list,” he interrupts. “I don’t know how I possibly could have made that more clear over the past few days.”

His loud, angry words seem to echo through the small bathroom, and even Rigby goes still, looking up in surprise at his favorite person’s harsh tone.

I’m surprised, too. Not so much that he’s out of patience on the whole fortune-teller I’ve-already-met-my-one-true-love thing, but because Mark’s never yelled at me. Not once. I mean, you’ve figured out by now that he’s not the lovey-dovey type, but he’s actually a pretty easygoing, even-keeled guy. Even when he’s angry, which is rare, it’s always a quiet kind of angry, more annoyed than mad, really.

But he’s mad now. I can see it in the tension of his body, the hot look in his eyes, the tic in his jaw.

I’m . . . confused. And a little stung.

This makes two guys in one night who’ve made it very clear that what I have to say isn’t worth listening to, that my thoughts and feelings aren’t worth listening to.

Too late, I realize I’ve spoken the words out loud, and Mark’s eyes narrow dangerously.