Ex and the Single Girl (21 page)

The doorbell rang I looked at the clock. Six f
orty-five. Ian was early. I dumped the water in the sink and put the glass on top of the pile. I gave my dress a quick smoothing over, grabbed my jacket off the
coat rack
and opened the door.

The first thing I saw was the Syracuse English Department T-shir
t, the very one I
’
d resented picking up off the floor for two years. My gaze drifted upward. Blue eyes. Sandy hair. Small scar cutting a thin line through the left eyebrow.

Peter.

“
Portia?”
He blinked at me. “
Is...is that you? You look...”
He shook his hea
d and smiled. “
Wow.”

I stared at him, somewhat tempted to reach out and poke him in the shoulder to make sure I wasn
’
t hallucinating.

“
Peter?”
I put my hand up against the doorframe to steady myself. “
What are you doing here?”

His Adam
’
s apple bobbed as he
swallowed. “
I had to see you.”

I stared at him. He took a step closer. I moved back, still standing in the doorway, declining access. He stopped.

“
I need to talk to you.”

“
So you came all the way down from...?”
I paused, shook my head. “
I don
’
t even know
where you
’
ve been. Where ya been, Peter?”

“
Boston.”

“
Boston. I should have guessed. How
’
s the family?”

He looked over his shoulder and then back at me. He seemed almost wary. Ashamed. Two emotions I
’
d never seen on Peter. “
They
’
re good. Thanks for asking.”

“
So, they don
’
t have phones in Boston, then?”

He held up his hands in defeat. “
You
’
re right. I should have called. I
’
m sorry.”

Oh. Okay. He
’
s sorry. Well, that makes everything all right.
I glanced out at the alley and saw Peter
’
s silver hatchback parked
by the side door, just below the steps that led up to my apartment.

I turned my eyes back on him. “
You drove.”

“
I drove.”

“
From Boston.”

“
From Boston.”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “
What are you doing here, Peter?”

He inhale
d, and his face reddened a shade. “
I have something that belongs to you.”

“
And so you drove nine hundred miles...”

“
A thousand, actually.”

“
Is it an elephant? Because UPS will ship just about everything else.”

Peter looked around to check if anyone was wat
ching, then turned back to face me. “
Can I come in?”

“
No.”

“
It
’
s starting to rain, Portia.”

“
That
’
s not my problem.”

“
Okay.”
He inhaled again. His breathing seemed unusually labored for someone who was not asthmatic. “
Okay, then, if it
’
s gotta be here, it
’
s gotta be here.”

Then he got down on one knee.

I bent at the waist and hissed at him. “
What are you doing, Peter?”

“
What I was too stupid to do six months ago.”

Oh, you have got to be kidding me.
“
Good God, Peter, did you fall on your head or something?”

“
Portia Fallon, I love you.”

“
What?
Peter, what are you...?”

He talked over me. “
I have always loved you, I will always love you.”

“
You really need to get up now, Peter. Now.”

“
Will you marry me?”

I shut the door, putting both hands against the hard wood.
This wasn
’
t happening. This couldn
’
t be happening. Where was the distant, preoccupied person who got my birthday presents a month late and then forgot how old I was?

This couldn
’
t be happening.

I opened the door. He was still on his knee, staring down at t
he ring in his hand as though he couldn
’
t believe it, either. “
Get up, Peter.”

He looked up. “
Are you going to give me an answer?”

“
No.”

“
No, you won
’
t give me an answer or no, you won
’
t marry me?”
My eyes narrowed. He stood up. I stepped back and let him
inside, watching as he headed to the couch and sat down. I tossed my jacket over the back of the couch and shut the door behind me. “
How did you find me?”

“
Actually, it
’
s a funny story.”
He put one hand over the back of the couch and smiled. “
It was your m
other.”

Fire shot through my stomach. “
What?”

“
I was thinking about you. All the time. Every day. But I was too scared to call you after...well, you know.”

I swallowed. “
So Mags...How did she find you?
I
didn
’
t even know where you were.”

“
She contacted my publisher, and they contacted me.”

“
I
’
m going to kill her.”

He leaned farther over the back of the couch. “
No, don
’
t. It was perfect. It was like a sign, the final thing that told me this is what I need to do.”

I crossed my arms over my st
omach. “
Then I
’
m definitely going to kill her.”

Peter stood up and walked over to me. He put his hands on my elbows and leaned his head into my line of vision. I pulled my head back.

“
Portia, I was so stupid. I was so wrapped up in myself, in my failure as
a novelist, in my fear of never being a success at anything...”
His eyes searched mine, darting from pupil to pupil, his breathing still erratic. I pulled my arms out of his hands and stepped back from him.

“
Well, gee, Peter. That might have been nice to
know a while back. You
’
ve been gone for what? Four months?”

He pulled his eyes away from mine. “
Twenty-one weeks.”
He
’
d counted the weeks. Why was I not surprised? “
Twenty-one weeks. Without a call. Without a letter. Just a note scribbled in the front page
of your book. I can
’
t even donate the damn thing to the library now.”

“
I know. It was awful. I wish I could help you understand...”

“
Oh, I understand, all right.”
The shock was in full retreat, and fury approaching the offensive line. “
You left. I moved o
n. There
’
s nothing else to understand.”

“
Yes, there is.”
He stepped closer. “
I was so stupid. I was jealous. You were so close to finishing your dissertation and being a professor...You were so successful...”

Wait. Successful?

“…
and so smart...and so...”

His head tilted to the side and he reached up and touched my face. I put my hand on his chest and pushed him away. He straightened up and tucked his hands in his pockets, giving me a pained look.

“
I just...I had to get away. To think things through. And on
ce I got away...I knew.”

“
Knew? Knew what?”

He took a half-step closer to me. “
How much I love you. How much I need you with me. Portia, I
’
m miserable without you.

“
Oh, please,”
I said, my heart pounding in my chest. “
You have no right to come back into my
life with no warning and try to give me a ring, Peter.”

He squinched his eyes shut. “
I know. I thought that might be a bad idea. Your mother
—”

“
My
mother
?”
I shouted, then held my hands up. “
No. Don
’
t tell me that was her idea. It
’
s not going to do anybod
y any good if you tell me this was her idea. This was her idea?”

“
Not entirely,”
he said. “
I want to marry you. I want to be with you. Forever.”

My throat constricted on
forever.
Peter put his hand back on my arm. I didn
’
t move.

“
Portia, I know I totally b
lew it when I left like that. I know I don
’
t deserve a second chance. But if you
’
d give me one...just one more chance...I
’
ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”

His
hand trailed down my arm and locked onto my fingers. I felt a rush of dizziness ride through me.

Forever.

A year ago, I would have given my right arm for Peter to say these things to me. It had been all I wanted. A promise of forever. A promise to stick. I
nstead, I
’
d gotten notes on the fridge telling me he
’
d be writing at the library and not to wait dinner.

Peter put his palm on my cheek. “
I know I screwed up. It
’
s haunted me every minute. All I want is a chance to make it up to you.”

No,
I thought. But I
didn
’
t say it.
Forever
was still ringing in my ears.

Peter stepped back, glanced at the door.

“
Are you expecting someone?”

I blinked.

It was the doorbell ringing.

“
Oh, holy Christ,”
I said. I stepped back from Peter and opened the door.

Ian stood there smi
ling in a navy blue suit jacket with a white button-down shirt and jeans. I felt a small whine rise in my gut at how perfect it all might have been. He held out a bouquet of lilies and kissed me on the cheek as he ducked in out of the rain.

“
You look beaut
iful,”
he said.

“
Thank you, Ian.”
I stepped back. He shut the door behind him and his smile dimmed as his eyes locked on Peter. Resigned to a ruined evening, I made a gesture toward Peter with my hand.

“
Peter Miller, Ian Beckett. Ian Beckett, Peter Miller.
”

Ian
’
s eyebrows rose a notch with recognition, total recognition, and he held out his hand to Peter. They shook. Then both of them, in unison, rocked back on their heels with their hands clasped behind their backs.

Ian looked at me. “
Um, perhaps this is a
bad time...”

“
No.”
I gave Peter a look. “
Peter was just leaving.”

Peter met my eye but didn
’
t move. Ian glanced at Peter, then back at me.

“
I think another time would be best,”
Ian said. He turned and put his hand on the doorknob. I grabbed his arm.

“
No,
Ian.”
I pressed my fingers into his arm and looked him solidly in the eye. Ian took my hand off his arm and squeezed my fingers briefly before letting go. His face was tight, and his eyes held mine for only a brief moment before trailing away to a point s
o
mewhere behind my left shoulder.