Say Never (29 page)

Tonight, I can’t pop my earphones into my head, not because I don’t want to offend my jogging companion, but because my earphones are in a Ziploc baggie along with my Bluetooth, packed in my luggage, which is probably in Bora Bora.

When I emerged from the house and strode to the asphalt to stretch my calves and hamstrings, I was afraid that Matt Ryan would plague me with small talk for the entirety of our run. But we’ve been jogging side by side for five minutes, and he hasn’t yet spoken a word.

On a side note, it should be mentioned that Matt has a set of legs and a pair of biceps that would make any woman hyperventilate, even those who can run a mile without breaking a sweat. His limbs are strong and sinewy, with just the right amount of hair. I try to keep my eyes on the pavement ahead, but every time we pass a street lamp, I steal a sideways glance at him. He seems unaware of my attention and I wonder if he’s truly oblivious or just pretending.

I can tell he’s holding back on the run. I’ve always been like the tortoise in the Tortoise and the Hare story. I keep going and going and going, but at a nice comfortable pace. I reckon my slow trot must be driving him nuts.

“You can go ahead, if you want,” I tell him between breaths.

“No, this is good. My heart rate’s up, but I’m not feeling like I’ll keel over or anything. I like it.”

I shrug and keep moving. He speeds up, loping ahead of me a few meters, then stops and rolls his neck, his shoulders. He extends his left arm and pulls at it with his right hand. As soon as I reach him, he falls into step beside me.

“How is it?” I ask. “Your shoulder?”

“It’s good. This is good for it. Thanks for letting me come along.”

I don’t answer, just take a few gulps of fresh air.

The darkness envelops us in the street, but every now and then a car slowly passes. On both sides of us, houses are lit up, their occupants going about their nightly business. TV sets flicker, children run through rooms, moms set tables, dads read their papers or check their emails. A cat shrieks to my right and I flinch, bumping into Matt. He reaches out to steady me, and I feel the heat of his touch on my arm. For a split second, a fire roars through my veins and my blood seems to pump at double speed.

“Okay?” he asks.

I nod and subtly disengage from him.

“Different soundtrack here than in the city, huh?” he says.

“Yeah. Definitely no cats. Sirens and crack heads, but no cats.”

He chuckles. “How peaceful.”

“As long as the sirens aren’t coming for me, it is.”

“Or the crack heads.”

I’d chuckle too, but I don’t want to pass out, so I keep my breathing steady.

We turn onto Songbird Circle and I refrain from commenting on the stupid street name.

“You’re in good shape,” he says. I glance over at him, but his focus is fixed on the pavement.

“For thirty-nine,” I agree.

“For any age,” he counters.

A few seconds pass. “I’m forty.” I can’t for the life of me figure out why I decided to come clean with him. The endorphins must be messing with me. “I know I told you I was thirty-nine. Sorry. I’m forty.”

“Is this like true confessions or something?”

“No, I just…It’s difficult to say my age out loud when I’m sober. Forty sounds really old. Thirty-nine sounds so much better.”

“Yeah, but if you keep saying you’re thirty-nine, it’s going to sound pretty stupid when you’re fifty.”

“True. I hadn’t thought that far ahead.” Yikes.
Fifty.
That sounds even worse.

“I’m forty-one,” he says.

“Congratulations.”

“I have no problem saying it out loud.”

“That’s because you’re a man. It’s different for men.”

“You think that, but not really. Not when you reach forty and you’ve never been married and don’t have kids. Everyone thinks you’re gay or deeply disturbed.”

I smile to myself. Matt catches my look.

“See? You thought so too. Which one? Gay or deeply disturbed?”

I bite my lower lip and slow my pace even more. I can’t talk when I jog and our conversation is making my pulse rate skyrocket. I really don’t want to have a seizure in front of this man. I may never see him again after Wednesday, but I don’t want his lasting image to be me writhing around on the asphalt foaming at the mouth.

“I didn’t think either one,” I lie.

“You’re full of shit,” he says with a grin. “It’s okay. I mean, I’m okay with it. You know, I always imagined myself married with a couple of kids. But it didn’t work out. At least not so far.”

We reach the end of the street. Beyond is a long green belt surrounded by a footpath. I jog in place and put two fingers against my neck. Matt stops and bends at the waist, touching his toes and giving me a delicious view of his ass. Adam has a great backside, too, but in an ass contest, Matt would win, hands down. Or pants down.

Stop, Meg.

“You want to walk for a while?” he asks, still stretching. I’m so overcome by his hind parts that I don’t respond. He straightens up and I peel my eyes from him before he can catch me. I nod and gesture to the footpath. We walk along in silence for a few minutes.

“So, I know you were married…for five minutes.” He grins. “What about now? Boyfriend? Girlfriend?”

I paint on a wide-eyed, shocked expression. “Girlfriend?”

“Hey, this is the new millennium. I’d be remiss if I didn’t ask. Un-PC, even.”

“No, I don’t have a girlfriend,” I tell him. “Or a boyfriend.” Or anything else, for that matter.

“That surprises me,” he says, gazing at me appreciatively. I turn away, pretending not to notice.
Two can play at that game.

The night air is cool against my skin. I smell honeysuckle and jasmine in the breeze, and I have to admit that I far prefer this scent to the exhaust fumes and urine and rotting trash-aroma of Manhattan. Still, the fact that it’s not even six o’clock in the evening and there is not another soul in sight is somewhat disconcerting for a gal who lives in the city that never sleeps.

“What about you?” I ask. “You seem like the type of man to have a bunch of chickies waiting for your call.”

He gives me a doubtful look. “Really?”

I laugh. “You’re a fairly good-looking guy, Matt. In case you didn’t know it.”

“Thanks.” He seems embarrassed, but shakes it off. “I date. Nothing serious so far.” He stretches his shoulder again as we walk. “After my fiancée and I broke up, I wasn’t in good shape. I couldn’t imagine seeing other women.”

“I can understand that.” I felt the same way after Brian.

“Yeah, you know, it’s funny. When we looked at the house, Maddy and I met your brother and sister-in-law. Then, after I moved in, I guess they figured out what happened. Caroline was great.”

I roll my eyes but Matt doesn’t see it. “Of course she was,” I say. “Little miss perfect.”

“No, really. I mean, I’m sure you have a different perspective about her…”

“You could say that.”

“But she really was cool,” he continues. “She brought me casseroles and cookies. Left them at my door. Sent McKenna over with handmade cards saying ‘Welcome to the Neighborhood.’ Your brother would invite me over any time he saw me out front. If it wasn’t for them, I probably would have self-destructed.”

I try not to think about my own self-destruction last month, which had nothing to do with a broken heart. But then, since Brian, I’ve never allowed myself to get close enough to anyone to be broken-hearted. I’m glad my brother and Caroline saved Matt from a breakdown. He’d make a horrible drag queen.

“You were, what, thirty-eight, thirty-nine? Kind of late to get married.”

“Yeah,” he says. “I was focused on my career for a very long time. I never imagined going into business with my dad. In fact, I swore I never would. I wanted to be the next Frank Lloyd Wright.” He lets out a self-deprecating guffaw. “That wasn’t going to happen. But it took me a long time to realize it.”

Out of nowhere, a huge German Shepherd bounds across the grass toward us, his muscles straining, a long pink tongue hanging from his mouth, his teeth bared. I freeze, my whole body going tense. Instantly Matt steps in front of me and places his arm protectively against my torso and I almost forget about the killer canine heading our way.

When the dog reaches us, he stops in his tracks, lays down at our feet and shows us his belly and I let out a relieved breath. Matt’s arm stays attached to my side, and I make no move to push it away.

“Blitzkrieg!” a man hollers from the other side of the green belt. At the sound of his master’s voice, the shepherd immediately gains his feet and lopes away from us.

I start to laugh nervously, and I’m acutely aware of the fact that Matt’s arm is still touching my midsection. Slowly, he turns to face me, but instead of lowering his arm, he slides his hand across my torso to my side. In the low light of the street lamp, his blue eyes flash. He tightens his grip and draws me to him, and before I can pull away, he leans in and crushes his lips against mine.

At first, I’m so taken aback that I don’t respond at all. But his lips are so soft, so warm, and his kiss so lusciously moist that I can’t help but kiss him back. He flicks his tongue into my mouth, finding the tip of my own, and a gooey, delicious sensation flutters through my entire body. He places his other hand at the back of my neck, firmly, possessively, and my arms simultaneously encircle his waist, and suddenly we are making out like teenagers, with reckless, passionate abandon.

After a moment, a blindingly delirious moment, I regain control of my rational brain and quickly step out of his embrace. I can’t find words to express myself, so I merely shake my head.

Matt’s arms are suspended as though we are still intertwined. In all candor, I wish we were. But I realize it’s too late to go back, because I am starting to freak out in a big bad way. He lowers his arms, watching me closely.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“Just get me back to Danny’s house.” I avoid his eyes by turning on my heel and dashing off in the direction from which we came. He doesn’t follow immediately. But a few seconds later, I hear the rhythmic
thwack thwack
of his sneakers slapping the pavement. And a moment after that, he is beside me, jogging at my pace.

With my head full of screeching, conflicting thoughts, we move in silence the rest of the way home.

* * *

“He’s not coming,” I announce as I take my seat next to Cera at the dining room table.

I showered and changed, and for the past fifteen minutes, I’ve been trying to banish Matt Ryan from my thoughts. With little success.

Patsy insisted we eat in the dining room. Apparently, her garlic chicken and mashed sweet potatoes with sautéed collard greens is far too elevated a meal to be consumed in the casual environment of the kitchen. Cera leans back in her seat, arms crossed at her chest, and by the tortured expression on her face, I can tell she wishes she were anywhere but here.

Looking at her, I have a sudden flashback to my youth. If Danny and Buddy and I were all home for dinner, Buddy insisted we eat together, without exception. No TV dinners, no skipping the meal because we’d had a late lunch. The three of us would eat as a family. I hated the tradition, especially as I grew older, and I’d stewed and brooded and, on occasion, refused to eat, making my displeasure apparent without having to say a word.

Remorse washes over me as I realize that Buddy was only trying to salvage some normalcy for two kids who had a completely abnormal childhood.

“What did you do to him?” Danny asks from the head of the table. Patsy stands beside him, forking greens onto his plate. She gazes at the top of his head with a kind of reverence, and I assume her husband Dennis must be going bald. Danny’s thick mane of golden brown hair would definitely be a source of envy for other dads in his social group.

“Nothing,” I say, staring at my plate. “He said thanks anyway, but he already had dinner plans.”

“What, like a date?”

“How the f—heck should I know?” I cry. “He didn’t give me his itinerary.”

The truth is, Matt hadn’t said a word to me, just retreated to his house in stony silence. I would have liked him to say something—anything—but I’m not sure how I would have responded if he had.

“He’s a good guy,” Danny says, apropos to nothing.

McKenna sits with Daisy and Sam flanking her. Sam is to my left and I have to keep swatting his hand away from the roll on my bread plate. He thinks this is a game and chuckles merrily. Tebow watches from his high chair next to Cera. My nephew looks puzzled, as if he can’t figure out whether or not this exchange is funny. He makes a show of grabbing for Cera’s roll, but her plate is way beyond his reach.

After Patsy finishes serving all of us, she takes the seat next to my brother. I notice that she keeps glancing at Danny with a hopeful expression on her face. She passes the salt to him before he asks for it and pours sauce over his chicken with a beatific smile. When he takes a bite and groans with gastronomic pleasure, Patsy nearly faints with ecstasy.