Push(58)

“Maybe,” he says, seemingly placated, but I think he has more to say. And then it hits me.
“Wait a second, you said Matt was aiming to get into my pants until he saw us kiss. Did he tell you about me? Did he mention a new girl at work or something?” I’ve got it now. David is rolling his eyes at me and trying his best to look innocent. “And did you tell Matt about me before then, too? Did he know you were f*cking someone, but he just didn’t know it was me?” Oh, this is good! Priceless even. They were both talking—or bragging?—about me without knowing I was the same person. David looks trapped.
“Emma, he was there when I wiped the floor with Brad’s face. He knew I was hot for whoever’s shoe that was. He knew I had it bad for you even then. But he didn’t know who you were. I never mentioned your name.”
“And?” I ask. He looks uncomfortable.
“And, he was the one that drove me home that night. The night I slept on your floor. That’s when he told me about the new hottie at work. I didn’t even know where the hell he was working, let alone that it was you.” I am feeling so f*cking high right now. Part of me wants to squeal like a giddy middle schooler, knowing that these two men were crushing on me at the same time, but I know that David would not find it very amusing.
“That’s pretty funny,” I say, reining in my enthusiastic internal response.
“I’m sure you’re thrilled,” he says flatly. “But you’re stuck with me now because Matt knows better. He knows that I will take him down if he even so much as looks at you starry-eyed. Like I said, you would have to pry me off his beat-to-death body with a crowbar.” No wonder Matt didn’t tell David about my panty dance.
“And like I said, he isn’t interested,” I say. And then stupidly I add, “At least not anymore.” David’s eyes narrow, and I smile a full-on, gleaming teeth, shit-eating grin. “Plus, the only man I give a flying f*ck about is you.”
* * *

It is nearly midnight when we walk into my apartment. As soon as we open the door, David seems a little nervous. He is talking too quickly. Saying something about how I should tell Carl he needs to change the hallway carpet because it is so old and shitty. I have never heard him talk like this before, and it’s weirding me out. I tell him that I agree that the carpet is crappy, but that I’m not saying a word to Carl about it. I’m just happy he managed to get David to fix my kitchen. I don’t want to push my luck. David agrees and then starts telling me about how he should just change the carpet himself without even asking Carl.
I throw my bags on to the table and turn to David. He’s looking everywhere but at me. His face looks anxious. I am starting to feel tense myself. What is going on?
“David,” I say, unwelcome alarm rising in my mind, “what’s wrong?” I try to line my eyes up with his. He doesn’t say a word but grabs me by the hand and leads me down the hallway and into my bedroom. He goes in first and switches on the light. I immediately notice a small box sitting on the center of the bed. My heart drops in my chest. Christ. Is that another f*cking package from Michael? Why didn’t David tell me about it before we got here? Shit. Maybe he doesn’t know about it. Maybe he’s as surprised as I am. If that’s the case, how did the package get into my bedroom?
But a second later, it is clear that David knows about the box because he lets go of my hand, walks over to the bed and picks it up. As he hands it to me, his eyes finally meet mine.
My heart is a lump in my throat. “Is this another package from that f*cker? I swear I am going to shoot him in the goddamned face.” I am frantic now. My skin is on fire. I throw the package back down on the bed and start walking in circles, like a stressed-out animal. “What the f*ck am I gonna do? Who the f*ck does he think he is? I want to...”
“Stop, Emma,” he says, grabbing me by the arm. “The package isn’t from Michael.” Oh. Then where did it come from? “It’s from me.”
“What?” I scream at him, eyes narrowed and hackles raised. “You scared the shit out of me. You couldn’t tell me that right out the gate? Jesus, David. That was Grade A * right there.”
“I’m sorry. You just flew off so quickly. I didn’t know what to say.” He gathers up the box. “It’s from me,” he says again. Is this why he looks so nervous? Is he nervous about whatever is in this box?
He is staring at me like a deer in the headlights, his bird-cloaked arms holding out the package. He looks both startled and nervous as shit. For some reason, it makes me feel a little lost. I take the box from him and sit down on the edge of the bed.
David sits down next to me and mumbles again that he is sorry. Then his hand is on my back, running up and down my spine, soothing me. The box is light, and I slide my finger under the lip to fold it open. Inside, in a nest of cotton fluff, is a new set of dog tags. I lift them out by the chain and see that they are an exact replica of my father’s, only they aren’t cut into pieces. Both tags are engraved with my dad’s name, social security number, blood type and the word Christian. One of the tags is held on to the chain by a shorter piece of chain. My father once told me they are designed that way on purpose—so that one of the tags can be removed quickly if the need arises. I hold them in my lap, staring at them.
“I don’t know what to say,” I tell David.
“Just say you aren’t mad,” he says quietly.
“I’m not mad.”
“Good,” he says. I put my head on his shoulder. “I was worried how you would feel about me having them remade. The old ones are in a bag in the bottom of the box.”