together and tumbling to the floor flashes through my mind. Brain, do not think like that. He’s waiting for an answer. Scoot out the door. Plan of cold, disinterested shoulder is not happening. Abort. Abort.
“Okay. I mean, sure,” I say.
I watch as he walks to the door (that butt—it slays me), moves the flowerpot inside and turns the key in the lock. “So,” he says, coming back to the bluegrass section, where I’m nervously teething on my apple (the thought of actually eating it now seems repugnant, but the tough skin is comforting between my teeth). “I wasn’t sure I’d see you again.”
I force myself to stop gnawing on the apple and shrug. “Small town, I guess.”
He nods. We both start to say something at once; we stop, laugh, start again, interrupting each other once more. “Go ahead,” he says. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Nothing—no, I was…” I’ve totally forgotten what I was going to say. “G-go ahead,” I stammer. “You go first.” Claudia, you’ve got a terminal degree, for Christ’s sake—can’t you do better than this? This is thirteen-year-old girl waiting for an invitation to ice cream social, okay? This is not scarf-wearing queen of intellect. That reminds me: must buy scarf.
“Um…I’m just really embarrassed,” he says. “About what happened last week. You know? It looked really bad and everyone was put in an awkward spot and I just…I’d like a chance to explain.”
“Okay…”
“Well, do you want to talk here or…are you hungry?” He nods at the apple. “Is that your dinner?”
I smile. “Sort of. Yeah, well, I’ve been pretty busy—I guess I am a little bit hungry. Except…” I glance down at the too-tight Goodwill shorts I’ve been wearing for days and my father’s ancient, grease-spotted Calistoga High T-shirt. Did I even comb my hair today? “It can’t be anyplace even remotely nice.”
“Why—what do you mean?”
“Look at me, Clay. I’m a mess.”
He lets his eyes wander on a long, slow trip down my body; I start to blush furiously. By the time he’s looking at my face again, I feel like an overheated tomato. “You look great,” he says, an impish glee in his eyes.
“Well, whatever,” I reply. “Maybe there’s a taco joint or something?”
“Mmm, there’s a great place just a few blocks from here. Best carne asada you ever had in your life.”
We get five minutes into Operation Chance to Explain and things are going all right, even if I am more shy pubescent than icy sophisticate. He’s messing with the cash register and gathering up his things and every move he makes telegraphs that he’s infected with precisely the same prom-night jitters I’ve got. Bizarre. Here we are, full-grown adults (how old is he, anyway? Twenty-seven? Thirty-seven? I have no idea), and we’re bumping into things and forming incomplete sentences at the prospect of going out for tacos.
Then the phone rings. He gives it a blank stare. It continues its soft electronic bleating twice before he says, “Let’s let the answering machine get it,” and reaches for his coat. On the fourth ring the machine picks up and something deep in the pit of my stomach knows who it’ll be.
“Hi, Clay? You there? Pick up, okay? It’s Monica.” Long, poisonous pause. Clay hovers near the phone but does not touch it. “I need to talk to you.” There’s a quick sniffle. “Clay, please. I really need to talk.”
Clay snaps the phone up. “Hi,” he says softly. “What’s up?” I walk away from him, feeling strangely numb. Seconds ago, I was struggling against the heat in my blood just looking at him, and now there’s ice water in my veins. I try the door, but it’s locked. I lean my forehead against the glass and will myself not to listen, but his words float across the small shop to my ears. “I know…it’s not easy for me—don’t say it’s…I just mean I’ve had my rough days, too, you know? Okay…no, I was just closing up.”
After he puts the phone down he stands there a couple of seconds; I stay perfectly still, waiting for a cue, wishing the door was unlocked so I could just slip outside and let the air clear my head.
“That was Monica,” he says, and his voice seems very far away. “My, um, wife. Except she’s not really—we’re not really…anyway, she’s having a rough day. It happens.”
“Of course,” I whisper, still not turning around.
“What?”
I turn and face him. “Yes. Okay.”
“Claudia…” He takes a couple of steps in my direction, but I stop him with my voice.
“Obviously, you’re busy—”
“I wanted to see you. I wanted to explain—”
I laugh, but it’s not a pleasant sound. “I don’t think there’s anything to explain.”
“The situation’s complicated, okay? I’m not trying to lie to anyone.”
“Married is married,” I say. “Divorced is divorced.” Finally, my voice has all the icy conviction I’d dreamed it might. Where’s this moral fervor coming from? How many times have I slept with married men—guys I didn’t even care about? “I think this whole thing is just—” the word is slow in coming, because it’s not one I ever use “—wrong.”
I try the door again, ruining my little speech with a futile shove. “Can you please unlock this?”
“No.”
“No?”
“I want to explain to you where I’m coming from.”
I lean my forehead against the glass, suddenly tired, and say, “Please. Just unlock it, okay?”
He crosses the room and I give him plenty of space. Proximity is dangerous right now. Already I can feel the sick emptiness brought on by the phone call giving way to an urgent need to smell his skin. Once he’s got the door unlocked, he turns to me again. “I wish I could just tell you how hard this is,” he begins, but he interrupts himself in alarm. “God, your face is white—are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I say tersely. “I’m fine.”
“Do you feel sick? You’re really pale.” He moves closer, and I back up.
“Look, don’t worry about me, okay? You’ve got a wife who obviously wants you back. I just don’t understand why you had to drag me—a total stranger—into your little domestic mess.” My voice rises on the last two words and my lower lip trembles slightly; I need to get the hell out while I can. One problem: he’s in front of the door.
He’s staring at me with a stunned expression, and then he gets a hold of himself and steps out of my way. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, me, too,” I mumble, and bolt.
That night, lying on my Pine-Sol-scented futon, watching as the occasional headlight sweeps ghostly shapes across my cracked ceiling, I think
