My One and Only(104)
I twisted my bracelet till it pinched the skin on my wrist, then cleared my throat. “I didn’t want to turn you down in front of everyone.”
He considered that. “Thanks, I guess.”
“I’m sorry,” I whispered again.
“I can’t believe I cut off my rattail.”
I gave a surprised laugh, and Dennis grinned reluctantly. Then he took a deep breath, exhaled slowly and looked at me a long, assessing minute. “I guess we’re done, then.”
“I’m really sorry, Den.”
“Right. Whatever.” Neither of us said anything for a long time. Then Dennis spoke again. “I do love you, Harp. You know. In a lotta ways, I do.”
It was hard to hear, all that kindness, that generosity. God knows I didn’t deserve it. “Same here, Den.” Then I took off my engagement ring and offered it to him. Dennis eyed it suspiciously.
“Dude,” he said, “you paid for it.”
“You’ve earned it. For putting up with me.”
He gave me a sudden smile. “Please. I’m not that pathetic.” He stood up. “Well, I guess I’ll get my shit outta here.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said yet again.
“Ah, don’t worry. But hey, dude. You mind if I tell everyone it was because you’re a heartless bitch and stuff, and not that you fell for your ex?” He must’ve realized that heartless bitch was less than flattering, because he pulled a face. “Sorry. Never mind.”
“Den, you can tell people whatever you want,” I said, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Serious?”
“Yeah.”
“Great. Thanks, dude. And hey. You can keep the rattail.”
“Oh. Uh, thanks, Den.” I smiled, then stood up and gave him a gentle hug.
An hour later, Dennis had loaded up his new truck with the still-unpacked garbage bags of clothes.
“I do have to thank you on this,” he stated, patting the truck’s door. “I’m wicked psyched about this truck. Got a totally sweet deal on it.”
“That’s good, then,” I said.
He got behind the wheel. “All right. Guess that’s it. I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll miss you, too,” I whispered, and it was true. Sweet, good-hearted Dennis had been easy and fun and pleasant. We would’ve had a nice life together, had gorgeous kids, probably wouldn’t have fought much.
Or maybe we’d have sat there at night, watching the Sox and stealing looks at each other and thinking, Is this it? Either way, I’d never find out.
Besides, Dennis deserved someone who loved him with her whole heart. And that, it seemed, was beyond my reach. I wasn’t cut out for couplehood, or marriage, or even children. I didn’t have what it takes.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
I WAS NOT THE WALLOWING type. No, I was much more the work till three in the morning type, and so, for the rest of the weekend, I sentenced myself to hard physical labor. I cleaned. Furiously. Bleach and ammonia cleaning (not combined…I wasn’t suicidal). When my house was free from every grain of sand, every speck of dust and every spore of mold, I decided (at 9:30 p.m.) that the deck could use sanding and got to work on that, too.
Coco watched, her eyes bright, head cocked. “Just doing a little repair work,” I called from the roof on Sunday afternoon. “All good.”
Kim came over to grill me about Nick, but I told her I was fine. “You know what?” I said from my perch on the ladder as I polished the ceiling fan. “Sometimes I think people want more than other people are capable of giving. And you know, Nick…he’s…I…” My breath started to hitch. “Just because you have feelings for someone doesn’t mean you get to live happily ever after.” That made sense. That was true, wasn’t it? Not the stuff of romantic movies, but valid.
“I don’t know. I think if you love each other…”
“We tend to go down in flames, Nick and I,” I blurted. “I don’t like burning. Burning hurts. Burning is painful. I’d rather…just…I’d rather just stay here and clean. Crotch! These lightbulbs are a crime against humanity. Have you ever seen such filthy lightbulbs?”
“You want dirty, I can bring the boys over. Then you will know dirt, and you and dirt will be one.”
Relieved that she was letting me off the hook, I continued on my Windex tour, and when I ran out of house to clean, I went over to Kim’s and tackled her kitchen as thanks.
The image of Nick getting into the cab kept flashing across my brain like a razor cut, fast and sharp and painless, at least for a second, right before all the blood tried to gush out. Then a rogue wave of…something…would threaten to knock me down and my heart rattled and clattered, my hands shook, and I backed away from that thought as fast as I could. Found something else to clean or wax or iron or nail. Turned on the TV. The radio, too.
But memories kept head-butting the door of my resolve. Nick with his head in my lap after we’d found his father…his smile as we lay in bed talking…the way his face lit up when I walked out of the Bismarck airport and over to his car…and the wave of despair and love threatened to knock me down and keep me underwater. So when those memories knocked and clattered, I shoved them away. I had to. And I was practiced at that sort of locking away. I’d been doing that most of my life, and at least this way, I was safe. Besides, I wasn’t capable of giving real, lasting, wholehearted love. I’d proven that, hadn’t I? I was my mother’s girl, after all. Stunted.