After all the confusion and heartache of the day, Petra wanted to go to Ian and sit in his lap. She arrived at Field, hoping Ian was in, and was surprised to be told that he was working from home. She dialed his number and started out for his apartment.
Strange, no answer.
She started down the street to her apartment, thinking that she would call him again after she’d grabbed a few things. Maybe she could pick up dinner.
She could make him food, she thought suddenly. She wasn’t the best, but Lisa had made sure that her girls had survival skills. Petra could boil pasta, or sear a steak. She had even made lasagna once or twice in her life. She wondered about his kitchen equipment. A steak would only require a pan, or something like that.
It was all so domestic, she thought to herself as she put together an overnight bag and contemplated her underwear. It scared her, negotiating these little details. She wanted things to be better between them. The first night—she considered it their first real night—had been great, the second, wobbly. Third time was the charm, she decided. She had told herself that she would let go a little bit; she could become a more optimistic person. True, she had not been happier today, but she shouldn’t fall apart after one or two or possibly three setbacks, depending on how she looked at it. Ian had soothed her. He had wanted to help her. The least she could do was be grateful. She picked up a sleek blue bra she hadn’t worn much before. It was a little uncomfortable but it wouldn’t be on for long.
Plus, it looked pretty good. A little shiver of anticipation rolled through her. It gave her more bounce per ounce. She pulled on a fuzzy sweater and her skirt, the lucky boots and coat, and gave Ian another call.
Still no answer.
It didn’t matter, she told herself. It really didn’t.
She picked up wine and groceries. She bought tea for the next morning. She picked up a bouquet of gerbera daisies and then put them down again. She picked up a small cactus.
Armed her with bags and wine, she started to feel better. There were things to look forward to in life. She could make a decent dinner—or maybe Ian would take over and cook it for them. She looked cute in her little sweater and skirt, and he would be gorgeous and maybe a little grumpy and rumpled. Even if he had work, she was sure that she would be able to lure him to bed. Luckily, someone was coming out of the building as she came in and held the door open for her.
She was halfway down the hall when a woman strode toward her, a tall, polished woman with sleek hair. Petra watched as she dug in the buttery leather bag she was holding and found a pair of soft gloves. She pulled them on, and the whole while, Petra was conscious of the woman’s curvaceous figure, her long legs encased in expensive trousers.
She was the woman that Petra had always wished she could be. She was quite possibly perfect.
Petra had slowed her walk down to a stop, but the woman passed by Petra without giving her a glance. The woman was lost in her own thoughts.
It was hard to feel admiration for her, though. It was hard to feel anything but a cold numbness in the perfect woman’s presence.
The elevator doors opened and the woman stepped in.
It might have been fine if she’d been just beautiful, or smug, or well-dressed, or if she had a great figure, or all of those elements in greater or lesser quantities. It would not have mattered. But the thing that made Petra want to grab the woman and stop her—the thing that had made Petra take a second hard look at her at all—was the fact that the very perfect woman had come out from Ian’s door.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Ian wasn’t cheating on her. The woman’s vibe had not been postcoital. It had been brittle and determined, as if she had finished a difficult section of a triathlon and had one more event to go. Not that Petra would know anything about that.
She knew Ian. Mostly. It had been about a month, but of course their acquaintance extended longer than that. She trusted him. But it was just…
Petra put the bags down in the middle of the hallway and wiped her face with the back of her hand. She was sweaty from standing in the overheated hallway in her coat, carrying her bags, and her skirt was twisted around her ass. Her hair was probably frizzing. She was a mess. She was a fucking wet, drippy mess in the middle of the tastefully neutral hallway of a fancy glass and chrome building, in a neighborhood that she would never have been able to afford, about to cook dinner for a man whom she should never have fallen for, a man who belonged with the perfect woman who had just left his apartment, rather than with plain, flawed Petra Lale. There was probably a perfectly reasonable explanation for everything, she thought, slowly unbuttoning her coat. All of her insecurities threatened to overwhelm her.
Why hadn’t he answered his phone, dammit?
She didn’t know how long she stood there, trying to decide whether to walk the rest of the way to his door or not. She flapped at herself, willing the perspiration away. Finally, after one of Ian’s neighbors emerged from his apartment and frowned at her, she closed her eyes and made a decision.
At the far end of the hallway, she called him.
This time, he answered right away. “Petra,” he said, “I’m sorry I didn’t pick up before. I was occupied with something.”
Did he sound relieved? Scared? Guilty? Normal? She huddled over her phone although she knew he wouldn’t be able to hear how near she stood. “So, what were you doing that kept you so occupied?” she whispered.
A pause.
“It’s complicated,” he said. “I’ll explain it all to you in person.”
Was he planning on breaking up with her?
God, where had that come from?
“I was thinking of making dinner,” she said. “I picked up some wine and stuff. I’m not the best cook—”
“You’re going to cook for me? That’s so nice. I don’t remember the last time anyone’s done that. People are usually intimidated because—”
She was standing in the hallway of the apartment of her boyfriend, the only man she could remember saying I love you to, and having an awkward second- or third-date conversation.
“Well, don’t expect much. I’m not, like, great or anything.”
Another pause. There was the sound of a bump in the background and a hiss.
He said, “Yeah, well, why don’t I come over in, say, an hour. I have something to take care of here.” Another thump. “And I should clean up a little.”
What did he have to take care of? What on earth would he have to clean up? Suddenly Petra’s throat closed up and she couldn’t speak.
“Petra,” he asked, when she didn’t say anything. “Are you there?”
“Closer than you think,” she said quietly.
“Petra, I’m sorry. I can’t hear you.”
She had to do this. She cleared her throat and picked up the bags, dragging everything awkwardly down the hallway. “Actually, I’m here,” she said.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“I’m right here. Outside your door.”
There was a long pause and Petra’s heart started thumping.
Bad things were about to happen.
Ian’s door opened and he poked his head out. He looked terrible. His eyes were red-rimmed behind his glasses and when he came out into the hallway to help her with the groceries, he sneezed.
“You can’t go in there,” he said.
She had been about to use her doctor voice on him, but now she didn’t care. She didn’t care who heard her. She was not going to take this shit anymore. “Why the hell not?”
He sneezed again and gave a snort worthy of Kevin.
“Why the hell not?” she repeated, her voice getting louder.
“It’s not safe,” he said, finally.
“Ian,” she said quietly, “what do you not want me to see?”
He froze and said nothing. She grabbed the key from his pocket.
“Hey,” he said, but he couldn’t stop her with his arms full of bags.
She threw the door wide, and befor
e he could say anything more, a cat streaked out.
• • •
For an elderly, fat fluffball, Snuffy was pretty damn fast. Ian shoved the groceries into Petra’s arms and told her, “Stow these and I’ll go after him,” then he took off.
Snuffy had already disappeared around the corner. With a groan, Ian realized that someone had left the fire exit propped open. He clattered into the stairwell and started calling. In a few minutes, Petra joined him.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I had no idea.”
“Yeah,” was all he could say. He had a headache.
“We could split up,” she said, biting her lip. “I’ll head upstairs, you head down.”
He nodded. That sounded sensible. In a few moments, he heard Petra clucking softly from above him, and he started to do the same.
The stairwell smelled like cigarette smoke. He was glad he wasn’t allergic to that.
He considered how upset Petra had looked when she grabbed his keys. She knew he was hiding something, but he’d hardly put on a good show of it on the phone. He was going to have to tell her at least part of the truth, although he supposed he could still conceal the bit about Danielle threatening to go to the medical board. Perhaps it wasn’t wise to keep it from her, but Petra was sensitive to this—hell, he was sensitive to this, especially now that she’d lost Kevin. He needed to deal with this on his own. He noticed that another door was propped open, and he swore softly. What the hell kind of building was he living in, anyway? Not that he’d be able to stay in his apartment with Snuffmaster 6 there. His throat was threatening to close up, or was that fear? Or maybe he was having a bodily reaction to Danielle, who’d walked through his apartment so smugly after setting down the cat carrier.
He wondered how he had managed to go out with the woman.
He slipped through the door and scouted the hallway. It looked disorientingly like his own, which made sense. He sneezed again and went back out.
At least he could rule that floor out.
He could still hear the echo of Petra calling faintly. Her voice was the voice of longing. He wished he could abandon the damned cat and go up to her and grab her and take her back to his apartment and to his bed and just pretend nothing had happened. They could spend all their days and the rest of their lives there. But he had to protect her from Danielle’s malice. He had to keep Petra from being hurt by his stupidity and carelessness.
He found two more open doors and scouted two more sets of surreal hallways. For the first time, he realized that the odd numbered floors had light blue carpets and the even numbered floors, like his, were a faint green.
He reached the exit to the rear of the building and the locked basement door. Either Snuffy was really lost, or maybe Petra had found him.
He didn’t know which possibility he hated more.
Ian started to bound up the stairs. If Petra had managed to corner him, the least he could do was keep her from the beast. Not that Snuffy was a bad cat, but he hated to think of Petra sniffling and coughing because he had been an idiot.
He didn’t even know how bad Petra’s reactions were. Would she be flattened by them? Would her throat close up? He hoped that she’d brought her purse with her into the stairwell. He knew how prepared she was for emergencies. He gave a small smile, thinking of how he’d unearthed a pair of panties from that huge bag she carried.
Bloomers, he corrected himself. Asslettes, rearlies, good girls.
Damn, he wished she were here with him.
He went past his own floor, paused for a breath, and continued up, panting now and sweaty. He could hear nothing except the sound of his (admittedly loud) breathing. At a door propped open by a fire hose, he heard it.
Petra was crouched, half singing, half whispering an old Dolly Parton song. Snuffy was a few feet away, tail twitching. He was listening, his delicately translucent ears swiveling at every high note.
Ian had never heard her sing before. She had claimed that she couldn’t. But her voice was sweet and soft and the notes swooped around them like liquid. It was a revelation.
He loved her. His heart cracked and overflowed. He loved her so much.
Snuffy apparently agreed. He inched forward and as the last notes died, he allowed Petra to gather him up. She put her nose into his fur.
Then she sneezed.
• • •
By the time they got back to Ian’s floor, they were watery-eyed messes. By silent agreement, they stowed Snuffy back at Ian’s apartment and headed to Petra’s.
She was going to dose them both with diphenhydramine, wash her face, and burn her clothes. That seemed like the only sensible solution.
She left the groceries at Ian’s. She was in no mood to cook now.
They did not talk, although there were things to say. The woman leaving Ian’s apartment was the ex-girlfriend, the woman for whom Ian had decided to brave immunotherapy. Now Ian had her cat.
Petra tried to wrap her mind around it. She tried to imagine the steps that had led to this, but her brain simply stuttered on Danielle’s beauty and expensive glamor, then shut down entirely. She sniffled and felt in her pockets for a tissue. Ian handed her a travel packet and she accepted. He took out another for himself. He’d had time to prepare, she thought dully.
At least the cold rain felt good against her itchy face.
Ian was trying to shelter her from the water. She could feel him moving in closer to cradle her under his arm, but she moved away and stared at the buildings.
They entered her apartment and she left him to go to her room to take off her clothing. The fuzz of her sweater had undoubtedly mated with Snuffy’s fur and was now producing dander babies. She ripped the offending garment from her and stuffed it deep into her laundry bag. It probably had to be dry-cleaned. She didn’t care.
Ian came into her room. She was still in her skirt and boots, and on top she still wore the blue bra she’d been so happy with only a few hours before.
Ian came up behind her and put his hands on her hips. He smoothed his hands up her waist, up to her breasts.
“Don’t,” she whispered.
He dropped his hands.
She pulled on a sweatshirt.
“I saw her leave your apartment,” she said.
She didn’t look at him.
“Did she say something to you?”
“No, why would she even know what I look like? What would she have to say to me?”
Ian was silent.
“Ian, why do you have her cat? I didn’t think that you agreed to be friends. Why are you even seeing her?”
Ian rubbed his itchy eyes and face.
“She sort of coerced me into taking the cat.”
Petra whirled around.
“How? And how long are you going to have him? You can’t stay in your apartment as long as he’s there.”
Ian stifled a sigh.
“She’s angry with me over how things ended. I was careless of her feelings and making me keep Snuffy is sort of her revenge.”
“You mean you have to keep the cat forever?”
“I’m figuring it out.”
It was true. He had been thinking frantically about how he was going to take care of this, but none of his solutions looked very good.
“I’m allergic to cats! Hell, you’re allergic to cats! What does this mean for us?”
He was only answering ten percent of the questions she was asking, and still there were more and more and more. She shucked off her boots and skirt now and this time, Ian didn’t bother to hide his groan.
“What does she have on you? You didn’t do anything dishonest, did you?”
“I didn’t do anything dishonest.”
“Tell me.”
“I can’t.”
Another pause. Petra said, “One of us has to give something here. And it’s not going to be me.”
Ian said nothing.
“Does she want you back?” Petra asked.
“No.”
“Are
you still in love with her?” she asked, averting her face, almost as if she expected to be hit with something awful.
His heart almost broke. He reached out for her slowly and ran his fingertip along her jaw. She allowed that much.
“No, definitely not. I love you.”
She pulled away again. She rummaged in her overstuffed closet and pulled out a pair of sweatpants. He noticed that she did not say I love you back.
She was waiting.
“Danielle was in the restaurant the other night,” he said.
“You saw her before tonight, and you didn’t think to tell me?”
“It didn’t matter. I didn’t ask her there. Gerry let slip something that I wanted to keep private, and she…she used it as leverage for me to take the cat. She’s moving in with a guy who’s allergic.”
“You should have told me. It’s kind of a big deal.”
“But I didn’t think she’d do anything about it. She was angry with me for being happy and in love with you. I never was there for her and we both knew it.”
“What is it that she knows about you?”
Ian paused. “I don’t want to tell you. I just need you to trust me that I’m trying not to hurt anyone.”
Petra shook her head. “I don’t know if I can accept that. You need to tell me more. I don’t know that you’re giving me enough.”
Ian tried another tactic. “Look, he’s not a bad cat,” he said.
“He’s sweet, but…”
“We could get shots.”
It was the wrong thing to say.
She was shaking her head again and backing away. Ian found himself unable to stop his own mouth. “I can’t believe you’re an allergist who doesn’t want to get immunotherapy shots.”
“It’s not that simple. You’re asking a lot, Ian.”
“Why is it so much? Just tell me why. I’m willing to go back to Dr. Singh and grovel for Nasonex and a resumption of our visits. Just tell me why you won’t invest in this. You could do this for us.”
“No, I would not be doing this for us. I will not be railroaded into this by you and your ex for mysterious reasons.”
“This would solve the problem.”
“No, it would be temporarily smoothing over the problem. At this point, there are so many cracks in this story that I don’t even know where the problem begins. This takes care of one symptom, not the underlying disease. Classic Ian Zamora.”
Romance in Color Page 80
