Part 12 (1/2)

”I think you'll live.”

She traces her fingers along my palm. ”You can tell a lot about a person from their hands. That's the first thing I notice about a woman.”

I don't think she can see anything other than the obvious, but I want her to keep touching me. ”What can you tell?”

”You take good care of your skin. That's obvious.” Her eyes narrow as she takes my left hand and rubs her thumb across my palm.

”You play some kind of sport, something with a racket. Tennis?”

”Racquetball. How did you know?”

”You've got a tiny callus below the ring finger on your right hand, but you don't have one on your left. You keep your nails short, but manicured. That tells me you're particular about your appearance, but you don't mind getting your hands dirty.” She turns my hand over and tracks the jagged scar running from between my knuckles to above my thumb. ”What happened here?”

”I broke a mirror.” My reply is oversimplified, but the details would make me look like a maniac.

”Seven years bad luck. How old is the scar?”

”About three years.”

Rebecca sits back for a second, then reaches toward me and touches a spot between my b.r.e.a.s.t.s. ”You've got blood on your sweater.”

I look down and see about six red specks on my chest. ”Ah, c.r.a.p! I just had this darn thing cleaned.”

She lingers on the blood spot for a moment, then leans back. ”You seem nervous. Are you sure everything's all right?”

”Yeah, I'm fine, just a little out of practice with this sort of thing.”

73.

”What sort of thing?” She tries to look me in the eye, but I won't let her.

I shrug and pick at a string on my jeans.

She giggles and brushes her hair back. ”Guess I'm not helping anything by being so evasive. It's just that you never know if you might be hitting on the wrong woman.”

”Are you hitting on me?”

”Maybe. I mean if it's okay with you, I'd like to get to know you better.”

”I think I can live with that.” I try not to let my grin touch both my ears.

”So you're not married, or involved, or whatever?”

”Not for a while.” That twinge of guilt tickles my throat.

My head is starting to hurt. I don't want to get into this right now.

Besides, it's a complicated subject. It gets even more complex as the months pa.s.s and I seem to forget little things about Lora. Sometimes I'm desperate to recall the way she brushed her hair or that throaty laugh that erupted from her when I tickled her feet.

Rebecca looks at me with a strange sadness, as if she can see my emotions going from white to black, from red to blue. Worse, she seems to understand.

”Bad breakup?”

”You could say that.”

”Was there someone else?”

I look at the ceiling. I can't stand for her to read me like a dime- store romance novel where she'll scan a few pages and put me back on the shelf.

”Sorry, I don't mean to pry.” She glances toward the television, then back to me. ”I've had a couple of nasty breakups myself. We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to.”

”Thanks, I'd rather not.” I'm trying to find my earlier grin but it won't come back. I shake my head and look away. ”This is too bizarre.”

Rebecca crosses her legs and slides closer to me. ”At first, I couldn't tell about you because you're so distant sometimes. And after a while, I got the feeling you might be interested, but I never dreamed you'd be single.” She holds up her hand as if swearing to tell the truth.

”And I don't play in anyone else's yard, if you know what I mean.”

”I appreciate that.”

Rebecca looks down at her robe, then to my bandaged hand. ”This isn't exactly what I had in mind for the evening. I guess we've gotten off to a rocky start.”

74.

”Does that mean I'll see you again?”

”I hope so.” She looks at her hands before peeking up at me. ”I'd like to be a little more presentable next time.”

I feel an urge in the pit of my stomach, but it's not the kind of craving most women would have in this situation. Panic is pounding through me, insisting I excuse myself and head for the door before I get into something I can't get out of.

I know the intricate waltz of relations.h.i.+ps is not meant only for those who possess a natural ability for the dance, or for those more deserving than me. It is for us all, but a trace of doubt lingers, a tiny seed of self-loathing that says I don't deserve a second chance.

I focus on the good that might come of this situation. I picture her in my arms, imagine kissing those perfect lips, and think how soft her hands were when she touched me. The thoughts curl around one another, squish together, and flow through my body. Spurred on by them, I tell her about the Kingsley's dinner party and ask her if she'd like to join me. She accepts eagerly. Outside, a car horn blows and boisterous voices drift up from the parking lot, but her attention is focused on me and she doesn't seem to hear them.

I give in to my desire to run before those eyes make me say things I'll regret. ”It's been a long day. I'd better go and let you get some rest.

We'll try this again tomorrow, okay?”