The Dirty Book Club(51)
It took a moment for M.J. to realize that he was referring to Jules’s Minnie Mouse nightgown, which she was still wearing. She would have explained that putting on leather leggings while hungover was like forcing a twin sheet on a California king. On a boat. During a category four hurricane. But that required speaking, and her headache demanded silence. So M.J. didn’t ask about the khaki duffel bag by the front door. Instead, she would spoon the couch pillows and wait for Dan to shed some light (dim, please!) on what appeared to be some sort of exit strategy, minus the strategy.
“I wanted to talk to you about it first, but . . . ,” he said, lifting himself to sit on the kitchen counter.
She needed him beside her so she could sniff his coconut-scented skin like smelling salts, enmesh herself in the ropy muscles of his arms, let him do the breathing for them both. But Dan’s heels, which were knocking against one of the cabinets, were too restless to spoon.
“I have to go to Boston for six days. Seven, max.”
Shock propelled M.J. upright. “Boston? Why?” There was a high-pitched quiver to her voice. She needed water. She needed central air-conditioning. She needed this to not be happening. Not again. “Are you leaving because I didn’t come home last night?”
“No. I’m leaving because of the hospital fire. Makeshift wards are being built all over Boston and the Red Cross needs experienced volunteers to set them up.”
“Like hospital pop-up shops?” M.J. peeped, though she wasn’t sure why. Neither of them seemed amenable to cutesy comments, least of all her.
“A guy from the team I worked with in Jakarta asked if I could help.”
“Of course he did.”
Dan slid off the countertop, opened the fridge. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you say yes to everyone.” M.J. bit the insides of her cheeks. “Except me.”
“Are you implying that I’m not here for you?”
“No, Dan, I’m stating it quite directly,” she wanted to say but didn’t dare. Not while Dan was glaring at her with such narrow-eyed contempt, a glare so chilling it literally made her shiver. Not a single ember of amusement warmed his face. This time, for the first time, M.J. had gone too far.
She should have apologized, blamed her snark on the hangover, erased his memory with a mind-numbing blow job. But the four chambers in her heart were pumping pistons, loosening the dormant feelings that had been calcifying inside her for months. “You tricked me.”
“Tricked you?”
“You sold me on a life that doesn’t exist.” She watched him twist the top off a beer and toss the cap in the sink even though he knew caps went in the trash. “I moved here so we could be together and you’ve been gone ever since.” She was crying now. Leaking tears and snot and all the selfish sentiments she wished she didn’t have. “I want to be supportive, I really do. I know these people need you, and I admire you for wanting to help, but I gave up my career for you and—”
Dan slammed the bottle on the countertop. “Seriously?”
Unable to meet his eyes, M.J. watched the wedding bands on her thumb blur and distort through her pooling tears.
“You gave up your career for me? That’s not what happened, M.J., not even close.” He was pacing now, traversing the kitchen floor like an animal trapped. “I was your rebound, remember? The one you ran to after Gayle broke your heart. I wasn’t your first choice. City was. But I never let that bother me. Why? Because you’re my first choice and I’m happy to be with you any way I can.”
“Said the guy who keeps bailing on me,” she mumbled, still to her blurring rings.
“I’m not bailing on you, M.J., I’m doing my job.”
“You don’t work for the Red Cross, Dan.”
“And you don’t work, period! It’s like you’re purposely trying to not make a life for yourself here. Like you’re . . .” He ran a hand through his damp hair, spiking it into dark brown hackles. “Most of your things are still in New York and you’ve made no effort to get them. Are you having second thoughts? Is that it?”
A fly landed on M.J.’s knee. She banished it with a spiteful swipe. “Dan, you’re the one who keeps leaving, not me.”
He hung his head and exhaled. Then, calmer, said, “You were fine with all my leaving when you lived in New York.”
M.J. searched for a suitable response. But Dan was right. She was fine with it. Or rather, she had been too busy to notice.
“You used to love how we gave each other space to pursue our goals. That we weren’t needy or possessive. And now . . .” He stopped when he saw her fresh spill of tears and sat beside her. His expression was softer, his touch warm and sincere. “M.J., if you think I’m doing this because I’m not committed to you, you’re wrong.”
“Well, you seem to be chomping at the bit to get away,” M.J. muttered.
“Champing.”
“What?”
“It’s champing at the bit, not chomping.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Yes, it is.”
“It is not.”
M.J. dried her cheeks on Minnie Mouse, then rested a hand on Dan’s wrist. Come sunset that wrist will be gone. “Wanna bet?”