Ex and the Single Girl

by Lani Diane Rich

  “Ian Beckett,” I said thoughtfully. “I’m afraid I haven’t heard the name. What kind of novels do you write?”

  He paused before responding. “You don’t know?”

  I shook my head. “I’m sorry, no. But that doesn’t mean much. I’m a Lit geek. Most of the people I read are dead.”

  I gave a choppy laugh at the tired joke. It was the socially inept laugh of an academic, and to my horror, it came out accompanied by a small snort. Ian raised one eyebrow and I felt my face flare up. I could only hope that Mags’s generous application of rouge would disguise the real flush.

  “Oh, Portia, honey,” Mags said, checking her watch with a flourish. “I need to check on the food, make sure we’re not running out of anything.” She winked at Ian. “You two should have plenty to talk about.”

  She turned and headed away toward the food table, which was stocked to the hilt. I looked over at Bev, who widened her eyes in exasperation and gave me a subtle shoofly wave with her fingers. Get on with it, girl. I turned back to Ian.

  “So, you’re renting the Babb farm, I hear?”

  “Yes,” he said. “The seclusion makes it much easier for me to write.”

  “You’re writing a book this summer?”

  “That was the idea.”

  Silence. Then Ian inhaled sharply and said, “You really don’t know me, then?”

  I shook my head. “No. I’m sorry. Should I?”

  “No,” he said. His smile relaxed. “If death is your prerequisite for reading someone, I’m quite happy to be off that list.”

  I laughed; a nice normal laugh. “It’s not exactly a prerequisite. I mean, my ex-boyfriend was a novelist, and I read his stuff, and he’s very much alive.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  Our eyes locked. His smile snaked up on one side before the other and it drew my attention away from holding my balance in the damned heels. My ankle flipped inward and I stumbled to the side. Ian’s hand was on my elbow in an instant.

  Hmmm. Elbows are an erogenous zone. Who knew? My cheeks flared up again. Cripes.

  “Excuse me,” I said, reaching down and unstrapping the strappy shoes, hanging them from one hand as I sighed with relief.

  Ian laughed. “I’ve often wondered how women get around in those things.”

  “They’re the instruments of Satan,” I said, tossing them at the base of the magnolia tree. “Well, now that I’ve made a startling first impression…”

  “Don’t concern yourself. I enjoy startling first impressions.” He smiled again and the muscles in my neck relaxed.

  “You’re too kind,” I said, noticing that the lines that marked the edges of his eyes were smile lines. Great. As if the gorgeous eyes and the killer accent weren’t enough, it appeared he had a great disposition, too. I sipped my wine, trying to drown out the sneaking feeling that a crush was forming.

  “So, this ex of yours,” he said, “would I have read him?”

  “Probably not. He’s one of those severe literary writers that critics love but no one wants to read.”

  Ian kept his eyes on me. “What’s his name?”

  “Peter Miller.”

  Ian nodded. “Coffee Table Memoirs, was it?”

  “Memoirs from the China Hutch,” I said, unable to hide my surprise. The book had sold about five copies, and I’d bought two of them.

  “Ah, yes, sorry,” he said quickly. “It was...” He paused, as though searching for something complimentary to say.

  I jumped in. “It’s okay if you thought it was bad. We’re not together anymore.” I paused. “As a matter of fact, feel free to say as many bad things as you’d like.”

  Ian gave a short chuckle. “I take it things didn’t end well.” I shook my head. “Do they ever?”

  Ian nodded. “Point taken. Well, I’m sorry to disappoint, but I didn’t think it was bad at all. As I recall, it had a strong philosophical undercurrent. I sensed a deep regard for Kant.”

  My eyes widened. “You really did read it.”

  He crossed his arms and looked at me, his eyes searching, connecting. “You’re Eloise, aren’t you?”

  I lifted my wine, draining the last drop. “No. That’s ridiculous.”

  He grinned, shaking an index finger at me. “You are. You’re Eloise.”

  I shook my head and stared at my toes, bare and dirty, digging holes in the grass. “Eloise is an amalgam of many women Peter has known...”

  “But predominantly you.”

  I gave him a long stare. “Are you telling me I remind you of a stuttering prostitute with an inability to walk in a northerly direction?”

  He laughed. “No. It’s the tendency you have to tuck your hair behind your ear. You’ve done it about five times since we started talking. I put it together when you mentioned the book.”

  My hand froze in midair as it flew to swoop hair behind my ear. I hadn’t realized I was doing it. I stared at my hand hanging in front of me, feeling like an idiot, until Ian gently guided it to the side of my head, running his rough fingertips over mine as he tucked the hair behind my ear for me.

  Oh. Man. Crush. Gah.

  “There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” he said. “I thought Eloise was quite charming.”

  He dropped his hand, but maintained eye contact. I had no idea how to respond. Was he saying I was charming? No one had ever called me charming before. Articulate, yes. Driven, absolutely. I’d even gotten a slightly inappropriate intriguing from a professor once. But I couldn’t recall a single charming. I smiled. I didn’t know if it was the wine or Ian Beckett, but for the first time since Mags had bounded down the porch stairs the day before, I felt calm and at ease. I inhaled, enjoying the sensation for a moment, knowing it had to be brief.

  After all, I had a plan to stick to.

  “This is going to sound crazy, but...” I began. At the same moment, Ian also spoke.

  “She’s not coming back with a beer for me, is she?”

  I laughed and shook my head, remembering Vera’s excuse for making herself scarce. “No, she’s not.”

  He grinned and leaned toward me a bit. “Your family isn’t terribly subtle.”

  “No.” I could feel my face growing warm. Again. “They’re not.” For a moment I considered abandoning the plan, running away, telling the Mizzes I couldn’t do it and resigning myself to a summer of harassment. But it wasn’t just me in this. Ian would be harassed as well, invited to endless Sunday dinners and various contrived social situations until we either slept together or died of natural causes. No, the plan was the only way out. For both of us.

  “So,” he said after a moment, breaking into my thoughts. “What’s going to sound crazy?”

  I held up one index finger. “I’ll be right back.”

  I turned and took a few steps, then looked back to see if he was watching me. He was, but he wasn’t watching my backside or my legs, the way men usually did when you walked away. His eyes were set on mine, as though he was trying to read me. I paused there, looking at him with probably the same expression of curiosity and surprise that he had. I held up my index finger again and continued over to Bev at the alcohol table.

  “Gimme the Love Kit, lady,” I said, grinning at her. She raised an eyebrow at me and reached under the table, pulling out an oblong nylon pack and handing it to me.

  “Moving fast with the Flyer, are we?” she asked.

  I smiled. “Daylight’s burning.”

  She nodded. “That it is, darlin’. That it is.”

  I headed back to Ian, being sure to make meaningful eye contact with both Mags and Vera as I closed the space between us. Ian watched me as I walked toward him, and when I smiled, he returned volley. I stepped close to him and tucked my hand in his elbow, leading him through the throng of partygoers. I leaned my head toward his shoulder, speaking to him in muted tones as we walked toward the house.

  “I have a favor to ask you,” I began. “My family is a little on the eccentric side, as you might have gue
ssed, and...”

  I swallowed. This had been much easier in front of the mirror this morning.

  Ian raised his eyebrows. “And?”

  “And... they actually tricked me into coming down here this summer for the express purpose of...” I paused, suddenly unhappy with the phrasing I’d rehearsed. I was only now realizing that it made me look just as crazy as the Mizzes. Crap. There was no saving my dignity now. I plowed on.

  “They want me to sleep with you.”

  We both stopped walking and looked at each other. I swooped hair behind my ear, consciously recognizing it as a nervous habit for the first time.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “We don’t have to... I mean, that’s not what I’m proposing. I just need a favor.”

  His eyebrows knit as his smile quirked. He opened his mouth, closed it, shook his head. “I’m not sure I understand what you’re asking.”

  I moved closer and lowered my voice. Ian’s dark eyes were locked on mine, darting back and forth, watching me intently as I spoke.

  “See, they think I’m depressed over my breakup with Peter, and... well...” I sighed, regrouped, started again. “You know how some women, when they’re depressed, they eat... or drink, or shop?”

  He nodded. I moved closer, unable to keep eye contact. His hand was on my elbow, pulling me to him, sending heat rushing to my spine.

  “Well, the women in my family Fly.” I squinched my eyes shut and barreled through the next part. “That’s the term they use. It just means having great sex with a temporary man. And they picked you. For me. And all I need is for you to go inside with me and we can just talk or whatever, just long enough to... They just, they won’t leave me alone if they don’t think...” I trailed off, fighting an urge to burst into tears of fury. As bad as the epiphany had been, asking Ian Beckett to pretend to have sex with me was worse. Much, much worse.

  He pulled back from me, and when I got the courage to look in his eyes, he was smiling. He held out his elbow. “Shall we?”

  I released a deep breath. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”

  “Not in the least,” he said, cupping my hand in the crook of his arm and leading me toward the house. “It’s the best offer I’ve had in a long while.”

  We stepped into the house and I shut the back door behind us, pushing the curtain aside with my finger and seeing all eyes drift in our direction. Perfect.

  “So, are all American women crazy, or is it just the Fallon women?” Ian asked. I bristled at first, but then considered what we were doing, and shrugged. Fair enough.

  “No, it’s mostly just us.”

  I was sitting at the head of the bed with Ian at the foot, our legs stretching over the middle next to each other. The room was lit only by a series of small, rose-scented candles on my dresser, the mirror reflecting the gentle flickering light over the eighties heartthrob posters covering the pink walls. The room was kept like a shrine to myself as a teenager, and whenever I walked in, I always ran my tongue over my teeth, expecting to feel braces.

  The first wine bottle was empty, and the second—which Id snagged from the basement about an hour after Ian and I first shut my bedroom door behind us—had maybe one more round left.

  I took a sip of my wine and dropped my head back against the headboard. The cool night breeze flowed through my window screen, carrying the smell of fresh pine and the hint of someone’s car exhaust. I was feeling softened around the edges and I liked it. Teaching at a university doesn’t give a girl much chance to be soft around the edges.

  “The thing about the Mizzes is that they’re not bad people,” I said. “They’re good people. They just do stupid things. Sometimes. I mean...” I sighed, briefly wondered what my point was, and kept going. “They’re not bad people...”

  “Don’t feel you have to defend them to me. I think they’re delightful. Barmy, but delightful.” Ian looked at his wineglass, then back up at me. “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

  “Of course.”

  “Of course you mind, or—”

  “Fire away. I’m an open book.”

  “Where’s your father?”

  I blinked. “Gone.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Gone? Did he die, or...?”

  “No. Just gone. Long time ago. I barely remember him. Anyway, did I tell you that Marlowe is the real Shakespeare?” Ian gave a small nod. Point taken, topic dropped.

  “Yes, you told me,” he said. “It’s an interesting theory.”

  “It’s not theory. It’s fact.”

  “It’s theory until you prove it, which no one has done.”

  He crawled over on the bed until he was sitting next to me, then reached over me and grabbed the bottle of wine on the night-stand, attending to each of our glasses until the last drop had been shed. I watched him, enjoying everything about him. His soft hair. The five o’clock shadow running roughly over his jaw and neck. The way he kept asking me questions and listening to the answers.

  “How can you listen to all this and not die of boredom?” I slurred as he placed the empty bottle on the other side of the bed. He settled back next to me. Our legs were touching. He shrugged and smiled.

  “I like to listen to people. That’s how I get my characters. And apparently, I’m not the only one who does that, Eloise.”

  “I can walk north,” I said, hearing a snap in my voice that I hadn’t intended. I still didn’t understand what the hell that was supposed to mean. Peter had told me it was symbolic, but he had spoken around the meaning—something about magnetic forces that repel each other, blah blah blah. I pretended to understand, but I never did. It still irritated me, and I was glad the book didn’t sell well, making it easily forgettable. Until now.

  “All right.” Ian sighed. “Let’s not talk about Peter. I’ve learned my lesson on that one.”

  My head shot up and wobbled a bit. “What do you mean? I can talk about Peter. I’m fine talking about Peter.”

  “You tense up the moment his name comes into the conversation, and I enjoy you more when you’re relaxed. Let’s move on, shall we? Tell me about your… favorite book.”

  I decided not to lay into him for the tense remark. He was doing me a favor, after all, and he’d earned a little slack.

  “We’ve been talking about me all night. What’s your favorite book?”

  “You’re much more interesting than I am,” he said.

  “To you, maybe. I already know me. Now answer the question.” He sighed. “I don’t have a favorite book. Whatever I’m reading at the time is usually my favorite book.”

  “Ahhhh,” I said, rolling my head back to rest against the headboard as I tilted my face toward him. “Noncommittal answer. Future politician potential. And your favorite color?”

  He rested his head back and looked up at the ceiling. “Blue.”

  “Oh, God, boring,” I said.

  His head pivoted to look at me. “How is blue boring?”

  “Because every man’s favorite color is blue.”

  “That’s not true. My father’s favorite color was red.”

  “Have you ever been married?”

  Ian froze for a second, then tilted his head at me. “Why would you ask that?”

  “Why would you ask me about my father?”

  “Because I was curious.”

  “And so am I.”

  He was silent for a moment, then gave a slow nod. “Yes, I was married. A long time ago. I hardly remember it. Did I ever tell you Marlowe is the real Shakespeare?”

  I laughed. “Rebuff duly noted, I will not bring it up again.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you feel—”

  “Tell me about your favorite...” I said, talking over him with a hint of a smile so he’d know I wasn’t really offended. I paused, turning my face toward his. Our noses were inches apart. I could smell the wine on his breath.

  “My favorite…?” He was still smiling, but the amusement in his eyes was waning as we looked at each other. I
thought about the other items tucked in the pack Bev had given me. I felt my cheeks grow warm again and rolled my eyes at myself.

  “What?” he said, eyebrows knitting.

  “Remember what I told you about Flying?” I asked.

  “Yes.” His smile quirked up on one side. “I hardly think I’ll forget it.”

  I put my hand on his cheek. It was warm sandpaper. He inhaled sharply at my touch. I liked that.

  “We could… fly for real if you’d like,” I said, barely whispering. Kiss me kiss me kiss me reeled around in my head, like a drunk trying to find a place to lie down.

  Ian turned his face, kissed the palm of my hand, and got up, taking both of our wineglasses.

  “I think we’ve had enough,” he said, settling the wineglasses on the dresser top as he blew out the candles.

  “It’s okay. I’ve got condoms in the pack right here, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  He laughed and sat down on the bed next to me, putting his hands on either side of my waist as he leaned over me.

  “I have very few rules but one of them involves future English professors who’ve had too much to drink.”

  “Oh.” I thought about arguing over whether I’d had too much, but since I was struggling not to slur my words, I figured I’d just let it go.

  “Don’t be hurt,” he said. His voice was soft and he was leaning in closer. “It’s not personal.”

  “Rejection is always personal.”

  “I haven’t rejected you...” he began, pulling back.

  “Whatever.” I flicked my hand at him, shooing him away. I snatched the covers, pulling them up to my chin and flopping on my side, trying to pretend that I wasn’t reliving a thousand rejections, both real and imagined. “All right. Off with you, then. ’Night.”

  He pushed himself up off the bed. I heard him moving around in the room, and right when I expected to hear the door closing quietly behind him, I instead caught the distinctive sound of a zipper. I shot up in bed in time to see him taking off his pants.