Part 15 (1/2)

”Don't get me wrong,” he said as we lounged, my feet resting on his chest. ”I like having s.e.x at your place just as much as I like having s.e.x at mine. But is there a reason you don't ask me over for nons.e.xual reasons?”

I chewed my lip, considering. The truth was I was afraid of extending too many invitations Monroe's way because I didn't want to come across as one of those needy divorcees he was so afraid of. I figured letting him do the inviting kept me from overstepping his precious boundaries. And I liked having my own s.p.a.ce. It was sort of like having my own little tree-house, when I wanted to be alone, I could pull up the rope ladder and hide out. Besides, Monroe had better DVDs at his place.

But letting him know that I'd put that much thought into this probably would have weirded him out. So, instead, I said, ”Well, there is the chance you'll find that voodoo altar in my closet...”

”Nice,” he snorted, flicking my ankle lightly, just enough to tickle.

”What happened to 'You may be my favorite person ever because you don't attach strings to s.e.x'?” I asked, flailing my feet out of his reach.

”One, that's a pretty broad paraphrase. And two, maybe I would like to attach a string or two. Like a meal or a movie or a meal.”

I rolled my eyes. ”You don't want to cook your own dinner, do you?”

He shook his head. ”I'm not a proud man.”

Since Monroe didn't give me a laundry list of ingredients, food groups, and regional cuisines he refused to consume, I decided to stretch my culinary muscles a bit with a Mexican feast of enchiladas with a three-pepper sauce. Judging by the way Monroe clutched at his throat and ran for my sink after taking his first bite, I may have overdone it a bit.

”Are you okay?” I cried as he downed his third gla.s.s of water.

A mile-wide grin split Monroe's sweaty, glistening face. ”That was awesome! Hit me again.”

”I don't know if I should,” I said hesitantly, sc.r.a.ping the pepper sauce off of my own portion. Darn Mama and her unreliable ”dash of this, pinch of that” recipes.

”I can't even feel the burn anymore. I think my tongue has gone into shock,” he a.s.sured me. ”I haven't had Mexican food like this since the roach coach that parked outside our precinct office got closed down by the health department.”

”Have you stopped to think maybe comments like that are why I don't invite you over?” I asked him. ”Would you do me a favor and take a preemptive Pepcid or something before you explode? They're by my laptop.”

”You keep your antacids by your laptop?”

”That's usually where I'm sitting when I need antacids.” I speared a forkful of nonsaucy enchilada and pointed my fork at him. ”I've seen the bobblehead collection you keep by your laptop for inspiration, buddy. Don't judge me.”

I heard Monroe shuffle around papers on my desk, looking for the illogically small medicine bottle. ”Hey, Lace, what is this? 'My hope for this holiday season is for Tony to develop a debilitating case of ringworm.”

Oh, c.r.a.p.

Monroe was holding a stack of the sample newsletters I'd been putting together from Maya's case studies. He read aloud, ”Jordan insisted that we both shower before we had s.e.x, otherwise, he couldn't 'rise to the occasion.' And then, of course, we showered after we had s.e.x. After a while I figured out that s.e.x with Jordan wasn't worth all that showering. The environmental impact alone was shameful. Lacey, what are these?”

”It's just a ...” I found that I was embarra.s.sed to try to explain it to Monroe, which couldn't have been a good sign. I took a deep breath. ”Maya, the girl with the cranial accessories, she thinks we can make a killing publis.h.i.+ng newsletters like the one I wrote about Mike for angry divorcees across the country. People give me their information, I write the newsletters for them, they mail them out. Maya's already got enough orders to keep us busy for a while. The profit projections -”

”Have you lost your mind?” Monroe demanded.

”I'm not in love with your tone right now,” I told him.

”Why would you want to do this?”

Monroe's voice seemed to rise in decibel level with every sentence. The mirth of just a few moments before had completely evaporated. I tried to choose my words carefully, keeping my tone as even as possible. ”Because apparently I'm really good at it. And there are all of these women out there who need me. They're angry and humiliated and hurt and they need a voice. And that's something I can give them. I can help them and get paid handsomely to do it.”

”And how much good did your newsletter do for you?” he asked. ”Did it make you happier? Make you feel better? Did it do anything but make your situation worse?”

”It brought me up here. It brought me to you, so it couldn't have been all bad.”

”What if some woman sends you information, you send one of these things out, and it turns out she's wrong? That her husband wasn't cheating and she's sent out an announcement calling him a 'd.i.c.kless wonder'?”

”Maya has a legal waiver that would protect us if that happened,” I said, realizing how lame that sounded even as the words left my lips.

”Well, I'm sure you'll sleep better at night, knowing that you helped destroy a marriage, but you're protected.”

”Why are you so angry with me? Why the h.e.l.l do you care so much whether I tinker with a stupid writing project? How is this so different from writing a book?”

”Writing a book doesn't drag other people down with you. You did your damage with your newsletter. You accepted it and I thought you'd moved on. But now you want to repeat the same mistake over and over again. How could you be happy wallowing in anger and bitterness every day, feeding into people's need to hurt the ones they used to love? What kind of person would do that?”

It was the disdainful look on his face that did it. The mad flutter of my heartbeat and my immediate instinct to make it right, apologize, take it back. The curl of his lip and tone in his voice that said I was ”in trouble.” I'd seen that look on my father's face, heard the tone from Mike. I did not need another man supervising me or protecting me from myself.

”I'm sorry, am I only supposed to write what you say I should write?” I asked, rising from my chair. ”This is none of your business, Monroe. Who the h.e.l.l do you think you are?”

”So what I have to say doesn't count?” h demanded. ”It doesn't matter that I think it is a huge mistake?”

”I didn't say that. I just don't need you telling me what to do, what's an acceptable way to live my life and what's not. I've already had that. I don't want another husband. I don't even want a relations.h.i.+p. That's not what this is. This is - I don't know what it is. But what we're doing doesn't give you the right to boss me around.”

”So this isn't a relations.h.i.+p to you?”

”No. This is great,” I insisted. ”This is exactly what I need right now. Spending time with someone who is funny and nice and really good in bed. No strings. No complications. You're a guy. I thought you'd be thrilled that I don't want to get all emotionally involved! I thought we had some sort of unspoken agreement.”

As soon as the words left my mouth, I wanted to swallow my tongue. I sounded just like Mike, seeing the relations.h.i.+p the way I wanted to, d.a.m.n the other person's feelings. Taking what I wanted and giving little back.

”How exactly is that not supposed to insult me?” he asked softly. He looked genuinely hurt, which made me want to apologize. But the damage was done. Anything I said now would just sound like I was placating him. Instead, I balled up my fists and concentrated on the pressure of my fingernails digging into my palms. ”I haven't asked anything from you, Lace, because I know you're not ready to give it. But you can't just declare that this isn't real because you don't want to put a label on it. And you're only going to be able to use Mike as an excuse for so long. Don't make me pay for his mistakes.” He shook a handful of the sample newsletters. ”Don't make all of the men in America pay because your husband was a philandering idiot.”

He dropped the papers on my desk and headed for the door.

”Monroe, can't we just sit down and talk about this?” I asked, gesturing to his chair, his empty plate. ”Don't just walk out.”

”I think I've lost my appet.i.te,” he said and slammed the door behind him.

22 * Flas.h.i.+ng the Harvest Moon.

The Harvest Moon Festival was the only truly community-oriented event in which the citizens of Buford partic.i.p.ated. There were plenty of summer events for the tourists: the Strawberry Festival, the Fourth of July Jamboree, the Annual Redneck Regatta. But the Harvest Moon party, held on the second Sat.u.r.day of October, was something the locals did just for themselves. I suspected it was to celebrate the departure of the annoying summer people.

The festival stemmed from an annual effort to help the community's poor prepare for winter. Only now, instead of hunting deer and turkeys to stock underprivileged pantries, local residents helped charities by funneling them cash through carnival games, rides, and truly unhealthy food.

One silence-filled week after our disastrous dinner, Monroe stuck the flyer for the festival on my screen door as a sort of apology gesture, along with my own little pocket recorder for taking notes while I ran. I know that a crumpled, badly formatted sheet of neon orange paper and an electronic gadget shouldn't bring a grown woman to tears, but being released from my own personal guilt-h.e.l.l was so much better than getting flowers or jewelry.

When I speculated that the world wouldn't end just because someone was mad at me, I was wrong. It did feel like the end of the world knowing that Monroe was angry with me. I was more depressed, more emotional, than I had been after leaving Mike. Food had no taste. Nothing I read, nothing on TV appealed to me. All I could do was write and sleep. I wrote pages and pages about Laurie's heartbreak, her hope at meeting Mac, the sheriff of the tiny town where she settled. I felt like I had damaged something important, and somehow writing it down would keep me from losing it entirely.

I must have started for my front door a hundred times, holding the k.n.o.b and trying to find exactly the right words to tell Monroe that I was sorry. But some unlikely combination of shame and pride kept me from opening it. Yes, I felt bad for making Monroe feel unappreciated or cheap. But I couldn't help but resent the idea that he was practically commanding me not to write the newsletters, even if he thought he had my best interests in mind. I'd fought too hard to start making my own decisions. I wasn't ready to hand over proxy votes just yet. I was afraid of ending up right back where I started.

That ugly orange flyer was like a pardon from prison. The minute I found it, I practically ran across the yard, even though I had no idea what I was going to say. How exactly did this work? Did I speak first? Did he? How did you apologize for half of an argument? Before I could knock, Monroe opened the door.

He cleared his throat. ”I'm sorry.”