that they’d never brought up. One of many.
She glanced over at the digital clock beside the bed. It was eight-fifteen and he still hadn’t shown up. How much longer did he plan to make her wait?
Until she was tucked into bed and sleeping?
If that was how he wanted to play this, fine. If he could wait, so could she.
To pass the time she opened her laptop and launched her e-mail program. Might as well do something constructive while she waited.
There were the usual three hundred or so e-mails for male enhancement drugs guaranteeing her a larger penis in six months, erectile dysfunction drugs at a deep discount and replica watches for rock-bottom prices. There was also a message from her writing partner, Miranda Reed, marked Urgent. The body of the e-mail was a series of question marks and exclamation points. There was a second message that simply said, call me! in fifty-point, hot-pink type.
Ivy had promised to call her the instant she learned the identity of the mystery best man. She’d been so far off-kilter, she’d completely forgotten.
She dug her cell phone from her purse, and, sure enough, there were a dozen missed calls and half as many voice messages.
She dialed the number and Miranda answered on the first ring. “Who is he?”
Ivy laughed. “Hello to you, too.”
“Have pity. The suspense is killing me. Is he dark and sexy? Does he bear a striking resemblance to Johnny Depp or Antonio Banderas?”
In the weeks before the trip they had speculated who the mystery man might be, coming up with both the best-case scenario—he looked like Johnny or Antonio with a body to die for—or worst case—he would look more like Johnny Cash but older. And he would have a beer gut, thinning hair and ingrown toenails.
In some ways, what she’d ended up with was worse.
“Yes, yes, no, no.”
“Okay, dark and sexy is good. Is he nice?”
Rather than play twenty questions, she decided it best to just blurt it out. “He’s Dillon.”
There was a pause, then, “Like, Matt Dillon?”
“Nope.”
“Ugh, not Bob Dylan.”
“Dillon Marshall.”
Another pause while she digested that, then, “You mean, he looks like Dillon?”
Oh, didn’t she wish. “I mean he is Dillon. In the flesh.”
“Holy crap.”
“Yeah. Surprise.” She gave Miranda a blow-by-blow of the trip so far. The way he’d been following her and how they couldn’t be together five minutes without arguing. She left out the kissing parts, since they were completely irrelevant, and the way she’d made him jealous today. Oh, and the fact that she actually wanted him to intrude on her. “Deidre thinks I need to let the past go and forgive him.”
“May be that’s good advice.”
“Miranda, we can barely say two words to each other without an argument starting. How are we supposed to resolve anything if we can’t talk to each other?”
“May be you’re not trying hard enough.”
For a moment she was too stunned to reply. Surely Miranda of all people would be on her side. She would understand what Ivy was going through. Finally she managed a baffled, “Excuse me?”
“Don’t take this the wrong way. But you can be stubborn sometimes. May be you’re just not listening to what he has to say.”
“I listen to people for a living. I would not be where I am today if I didn’t know how to listen. And you think I’m stubborn? You should try having a serious conversation with this man. He’s impossible!”
Her tone softened. “I swear I’m not saying this to upset you. I’m just worried that the past is holding you back.”
“Holding me back how? Is this about my sex life?”
“Well, no, not exactly, although you’ve got to admit, it has been a while.”
“Next you’re going to tell me that you think I’m unhappy.” There was silence at the other end. “You do, don’t you? Why is everyone so convinced I’m not happy? I’m a psychologist, for God’s sake. Don’t you think I would have noticed? If I was so miserable, don’t you think I would have done something about it?”
“May be you’re so used to feeling that way, you don’t even realize it’s happening. I think…oh, shoot! The other line is ringing.” She paused, and Ivy knew she was checking the caller ID. “It’s our publicist. We’re supposed to make the final arrangements for my trip to NewYork, for that radio interview. I really should answer.”
“That’s fine,” Ivy said. She’d heard enough, anyway.
“I’ll call you right back. I promise.”
“I’ll talk to you later.” Ivy disconnected and shut off her phone. She didn’t want to talk to her again. Calling Miranda was supposed to make her feel better, not worse.
If everyone else was so convinced she was miserable, what about Dillon? What did he see when he looked at her? Did he think she was unhappy?
She looked at the clock. It was half-past eight, and she was tired of waiting. If everyone was so darned convinced her unresolved issues with Dillon were ruining her life, then damn it, she was going to resolve them. Once and for all.
Self-esteem take a hit? Get past the hurt and move on. Find a new activity or group to get involved in. Exercise! Walk! Look in the mirror every day, and say, “I like that person looking back at me.”
—excerpt from The Modern Woman’s Guide to Divorce (And the Joy of Staying Single)
Ivy flung open the bedroom door and peered down the length of the hallway. No Dillon. But a narrow sliver of light shone through his partially open door like an written invitation. She marched down the hall, intent on barging in on him before he had the chance to do the same to her.
Rather than knock, since such gestures hadn’t been high on his list of priorities, she shoved the door open and stepped right inside.
The first thing she noticed was the binders and loose papers strewn across the bed. The second was Dillon sitting in the middle of it all, back propped against the headboard, reading some official-looking document. He didn’t look as though he was preparing to barge in on her anytime soon.
“Problem?” he asked, watching her expectantly.
She just stood there, mouth hanging open, probably looking like a trout stuck on a hook. He was wearing a pair of jogging pants, a Texas A&M T-shirt, and his feet were bare.
