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I'm right. He knows it. I know it.
He doesn't try to counter it
this time, though, and a part of me wonders if he's grown up.
The hopeful side of me slinks away with two black eyes
and a broken nose. The smart side of me tells my legs that it's time to head for the check-out counter.
"Wait. Chris,
wait. You're right, okay? You're right."
Well, THERE'S a new concept.
"I do hate to be alone. I REALLY hate
being lonely. Loneliness and I are pretty much mortal enemies. But you know what?"
Blink. I know a lot of
things about Alexander McLean, but the man in front of me is a little bit different than the boy I left, and I have no idea
what he's about to say. For once.
"You're the only woman I ever want to fight that loneliness with."
If I had
the willpower, I'd walk away. I can't, though. My feet are glued to the floor and my eyes are glued to this new, changing
Alex. This new Alex who no longer wants ANY woman. For some reason, this new Alex seems to want THIS woman.
New concept
indeed.
"I'm serious, Chris. I don't just miss having a body there, I miss your little legs and your cold feet and
the way your hand curls around my side when you roll over around six in the morning. I don't just miss a presence in the kitchen,
I miss the way you always cook in stork-stance and the way you pretend to let me help you. Hell, I even miss you correcting
my grammar every other sentence. The vacancy is YOURS, Chris, and you're the only one who can fill it."
And I'm stunned
slightly speechless, because the old Alex knew all the right things to say too, but he was never this eloquent.
He
wasn't ever this original. He wouldn't ever try to work my idiosyncrasies into his romantic hero speeches.
"Dammit,
Chris, say something. That's a mouthful to get out, okay? You owe me a response."
I'd be pissed that he's
demanding anything if not for the fact that he's right.
"Come back to the house with me so we can make it a home."
I
want to tell him to fuck off. In a really witty, creative, funny kind of way so that I can be the cool, ass-kicking chick
that never lets the boys get to her. I want to be the independent one that can't be wooed by a couple of good lines and a
really desperate male who has suddenly fallen back on the lyrical prowess of Luther Vandross.
"You know, Luther would
definitely be pissed at you for stealing his lines."
He rolls his eyes, and I smile. Maybe I can be the ass-kicking,
asshole-leaving leading lady after all.
"Honestly? If it's between you and Luther, I'd rather Luther be pissed. I miss
you, Chris."
My raging feminist scuffs the toe of her sneakers on the ground and blushes, and against my better judgment,
I respond.
"I miss you, too."
He pulls his hands out of his pockets and rubs them on his jeans. "You want to
come back and see if we can give that L-word another shot?"
He gives me a nervous, crooked smile, and my feminist does
her best Edith Hamilton impression while I attempt a nervous, crooked smile in return.
"Yes."
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