Finding Isadora(92)

Involuntarily I glanced down to the front of his jeans, saw he still had an erection, felt my corresponding female parts heat and swell with desire.

When I looked up again, he nodded. “Yeah, Isadora. That’s what you do to me.”

I had to clench my fists to keep from touching him. “You’d better take me home.” The words came out choked.

He started the car and obliged, driving far too fast. Neither of us said a word on the way. When he double-parked in front of my building, he didn’t turn the engine off.

“What are we going to do?” I asked softly. “How can we deal with this?”

“I don’t have a f*cking clue.”

He was the problem-solver. He was supposed to have answers. He’d had so many relationships, how could he not know how to handle this?

He shook his head. “Go inside, Isadora.”

I did, and managed it without a backward glance.

Needless to say, I didn’t sleep. I tossed, and imagined Gabriel tossing as he imagined me…

I’d have phoned Grace, but I knew the advice she’d give. Have sex with Gabriel and see where it took us. If I said I didn’t want to hurt Richard, she’d protest that jealousy was a selfish, immature emotion. She was right—but the fact was, most of us mortals were selfish and immature.

Janice. I could tell this whole mess to Janice. Not that she was an expert on relationships, but she knew me so well, and loved me. Maybe she’d come up with a fresh insight that had escaped me. Failing that, at least she could be counted on to sympathize.

Around three in the morning I almost phoned her, but I resisted the temptation. I couldn’t be that selfish. I would, however, call first thing in the morning and ask if we could switch our planned lunch for dinner at my place. No way could I discuss my problems over a quick lunch in a crowded deli.

Finally, around five, fed up with all the tossing and agonizing, I rose and took Pogo for a walk. He started out as usual, bouncing with energy, but when I flopped down on an oceanside bench only a few blocks from home, he picked up on my mood and chose to sit docilely at my feet rather than tug at his leash and demand that I let him explore the beach.

I stared at him gloomily, my brain too tired to even think, until suddenly he leaped up, yipping happily. He pulled the leash from my slack grip and scampered away.

“Pogo!” Then I realized he was greeting a jogger. Althea Fitzsimmons.

She bent to pat him and pick up the dangling leash. “So, Pogo, another early bird.” A glance at me as she handed the leash over. “Morning, Dr. Wheeler.”

“Morning.”

Another glance, with narrowed eyes.

I realized that, in addition to my thoroughly tousled hair, she was seeing swollen, bloodshot eyes ringed in purple shadows and, quite likely, lips still swollen from last night’s passionate kisses.

Quickly, I said, “I was right, green’s your color. You look great.” This morning she wore a tank top the color of ripe avocado. Her cheeks were rosy, her green eyes sparkling, her hair wind-tousled—tousled attractively, unlike mine which was merely sleep-ratted.

Her mouth worked for a moment. “Well, you look dreadful,” she said abruptly. “And it’s not allergies, as you said last time. It’s not any of my business, but is there anything I can help with?”

I shook my head. “Thanks anyhow, Ms. Fitzsimmons.”

“Name’s Althea. And you’re Isadora, aren’t you?”

“Yes, though most people call me Iz or Izzie.”

She scowled. “Lovely name, Isadora. Shouldn’t be messed with.”

Gabriel never messed with it. And when he said it, it did sound lovely.

I must have looked truly pitiful because she sank down on the bench beside me. “What’s wrong?”

If I told her the whole story, she’d faint from shock. Instead, I said, “My fiancé and I broke up.”

“Oh, my. That nice young man you were with at dinner?”

When I nodded, she said, “How sad. I’m sure you’re heartbroken.”

Heartbroken. “Um…” I wasn’t, at least not at the moment. My quandary over Gabriel had distracted me from agonizing over losing Richard. We’d broken up less than two days ago, and already I was obsessing over another man.

I squeezed my eyes shut, thoroughly miserable, then opened them again and gazed at her. “I was,” I said softly. “But the break-up was my doing, and I know it’s for the best. Right now I’m more concerned about … something else. About doing something that might hurt him even more.” Boy, I must be desperate to talk if I was confiding in Althea Fitzsimmons.

She frowned. “You’re not responsible for his feelings. Only your own.”

“How do you mean?”

“You don’t make someone feel a certain way.”

My brain was fuzzy this morning, and I guess my bewilderment showed on my face because she shook her head impatiently. “A woman breaks up with a man. How does he react? One man may be sad, another hurt, another angry, another will be determined to get back at her. Another will understand. Another will feel relieved. She doesn’t make him feel one or more of those things. They’re his feelings; he’s responsible for them. And entitled to them.”

“That sounds like something my mother would say.”