Desperately Seeking Epic(63)

Eight o’clock rolled around and I was lying down on my couch, watching the only channel I could get on television. They were playing reruns of Married with Children. Don’t judge me, I absolutely loved that show. I nearly jumped out of my skin when someone knocked on my door. It actually sounded more like they kicked my door. Rushing to my purse, I grabbed my revolver and plastered myself against the wall beside the door.

“Who is it?”

“It’s Paul. My hands are full! Open the door.”

“What the hell is he doing here?” I mumbled softly to myself as I unhooked the chain and flipped the dead bolt.

Holding a bottle of red wine under one arm, and balancing five containers of Country Crock in the other, he grinned. “Thought you might like some dinner.”

“You brought five containers of butter?” I asked, confused.

He pushed by me and walked to the kitchen. “No,” he called over his shoulder as I shut the door and followed. “My mother likes to reuse these containers as Tupperware. Not too bad unless you’re at her house looking for some kind of butter.” He gently slid everything on the counter. “It takes twenty containers until you can butter your bread.”

I laughed a little. “She sounds awesome.”

“I just left her house. She’s moving to Florida in a month so I’m trying to get my fill of her awesome cooking before she goes.” His gaze turns to me and his eyes widen. “Have you been holding that gun the entire time?”

I glance down at my hand. “I didn’t know who was at the door. You kicked it,” I defended. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“My hands were full. Damn, Clara,” he murmured. “Put that thing away.”

“Okay, okay,” I agreed. “Don’t be such a baby.”

“I prefer responsible adult and gun safety advocate.”

I pursed my lips. “Yeah, well I prefer supermodel and wealthy divorcée.” I shrugged. “We are what we are.” I hid the gun in a kitchen drawer as he peeled the lids off of the containers.

“So your mother gave you enough food to feed an army and you decided to share it with me?”

“Italian food is the best hangover food.”

My stomach grumbled at the thought. I wasn’t sure what I thought about his unannounced arrival. We were so weird together then. We started off enemies. Then we called a truce and proclaimed peace in the name of our business partnership. Were we becoming friends now? Really? Did he do things like this for all of his friends; bring them tables he built with his own bare hands, help them work on their house, protect them from themselves when they’re drunk in a bar, bring them dinner when they’re hung over?

He must have noted my perplexed look. “Wasn’t just for you. I wanted to have dinner with a good friend tonight.”

“We’re friends?”

He gave one curt bob of his head. “Yes, we’re friends.”

I didn’t question it. I didn’t have the energy to. And the truth was, I needed a friend. Desperately. Even if said friend was seemingly a giant man-boy that called himself Epic. Beggars can’t be choosers.

We plated out a feast of lasagna, stuffed shells, meatballs, and salad. I could not stop eating. I might as well have shoved my face in the Tupperware of lasagna like a horse with a trough. It was so good. I had a glass of red wine with the meal, because Paul insisted it would be the best I’d ever had. And it was. Among the adventurer, skydiver, and lady slayer, I discovered he loved to cook and though he enjoyed alcohol of all kinds, he considered himself a wine connoisseur.

After we did the dishes, which was only the forks because we ate our food off of paper plates—I hadn’t really stocked up on home essentials just yet—we took our wine and sat on the top step of the front porch. It was sturdier now. Crickets chirped in the dark as we sat, not speaking. The quiet between us made me nervous. Friends should be able to talk. Right? Why weren’t we talking?

“I signed the papers,” I blurted out. I didn’t know why. I just needed to tell someone. Anyone. He was there. And no one else was saying anything. Why not me? I needed to feel how it felt to say it . . . to really start owning that I was single and would soon be divorced. Or on my way to divorce.

Paul nodded a few times before holding his glass up to toast. “To moving on.” I clinked my glass with his and we both sipped. “You holding up okay?”

I darted my tongue out and wet my dry lips. “It’s just scary. Being single again. It’s hard to imagine doing something as simple as kissing another man. And as you know, I tend to overthink everything. It’s going to be a disaster.”

“Maybe not,” Paul replied. “Sometimes things just happen. Maybe you won’t have to think about it.”

I let out a long sigh as I laughed. “Maybe I need a practice date and kiss. Ya know? Like someone to get me back on my feet.” I stared at my glass in thought. “Why isn’t that a thing yet? Someone should create that service.”

“It is a thing,” he snorted. “They’re called escorts.”

I scrunched my nose up. “Yuck. This would be different. Strictly helping people get back in the saddle for dating.”

“Is that a new business model you just created?” he joked. “You could make millions.”