Page 60 of The Good Guy on My Porch

Now, I had to face Oscar, who’d probably heard about me telling the biggest gossips in town that we were dating. All I wanted to do was take some aspirin and go to bed, but I’d started a rumor about us and I needed to beg for his forgiveness.

He looked up from his book as I started down the walk. He looked pissed. His jaw was tight and his whole posture was stiff. I fought the urge to turn and run away, mostly because I lived there and I wanted to go to bed more than I wanted anything else at the moment.

“You heard,” I said, when I reached him.

He looked up at me. “I heard.”

“I’m really sorry. It’s just that they were grilling me about Jerome and I…I just wanted them to stop worrying about me. They’d decided that you and I should be…”

I’d been looking at the sidewalk, trying to explain and then Oscar’s hands were on me, one cupping my chin, the other in my hair and his lips were on mine. I wish I could say the kiss made me forget all about my headache and my exhaustion. It was a damn good kiss, but it wasn’t magical. I’d had such a rough day and I was so relieved that he wasn’t pissed at me, and overwhelmed with so many emotions that I pushed him away, dropped my head in my hands and did something I never, ever do. I cried.

“Shit,” he said. “I’m sorry. I thought—”

I looked up at him. I’m sure I looked like a crazy, red-eyed raccoon with mascara running down my cheeks and my face all red and blotchy. “It’s not you…I just…I’ve had the worst day and you…You’re such a good guy and I’m…” I was interrupted by a sob. “I’m a horrible person.”

“You’re not a horrible person,” he said. Was he smiling? He didn’t believe me?

“I am. I’ve been lying to you. There’s no Jerome. There’s never been a Jerome.”

Confusion twisted his brow, but he didn’t ask any questions. He just pulled me into his arms and hugged me so tight it made me cry harder. He rubbed my back while I cried like a big, slobbery mess. I didn’t think I needed to worry about not being good enough for him anymore. I doubted he’d want me anymore.

When I finally pulled myself together and stopped crying, he leaned back and studied my face. “Have you had dinner?”

The crying had made my head pound like I had a crew of construction workers in there, but my stomach still got into the action with a loud growl. “I kind of forgot about dinner.” I thought back through my day. “I don’t think I had lunch either.”

He stood and offered me a hand up. “Come on. I’ll make you something. I’d say we should go to your place, but I doubt you have anything decent to eat in there.”

“I don’t,” I said, without even having to think about it. “I really don’t. Wait, where’s Buddy?”

“He’s at my place. I took him for a walk when I got home, and he decided he wanted to hang out inside for the evening.”

I considered following Buddy’s lead and running home to hide at my place, but I was starving and exhausted and my head hurt. If I went home, I wouldn’t have the energy to make anything and I’d probably starve to death.

I found Buddy in his dog bed in Oscar’s living room, a bone in his mouth and about ten dog toys snuggled around him. “No wonder he didn’t want to go outside,” I said. “When did you get all this stuff?”

“He gets sad when you aren’t here. I may have gone a bit overboard trying to cheer him up.”

Buddy looked up at me, his tongue hanging out in a doggy grin. I went over and gave him a hug, wrapping my arms around him and petting him. “Good to see you, Buddy. I missed you, too.”

Buddy had no interest in leaving his doggy bed of fun, so I took a seat on the couch. Oscar was already in the kitchen pulling out pots and pans. “I’ll put together something quick. What would you like to drink? I’ve got wine.”

I cringed. I could only imagine what I’d say if I added wine to my empty stomach and emotional state. “I’m good with a glass of water. Thank you, Oscar. You have every right to be furious with me.”

He stopped and looked at me. “We’ll talk about all of that after you’ve eaten. Right now, just know that I’m not even a tiny bit mad at you, much less furious. Okay?”

“Maybe I was wrong,” I said. “Maybe you aren’t a good guy. Maybe you’re crazy.”

He chuckled and went back to cooking. I sipped my glass of water and set it on the coffee table. Then, I leaned my head back on the couch and let my eyes drift shut. The way my head was pounding, I figured I’d never fall asleep, but just seconds later, Oscar was shaking me awake and I was blinking at him, trying to remember where I was and what I’d been doing.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, his expression tender. “Dinner’s ready. I’d let you sleep, but I think you need some food.”

“Right.” I rubbed my face and forced myself to wake up. My stomach was still feeling empty, but my headache felt marginally better. “Thank you.”

The food smelled so good I could barely stand it. “It’s just spaghetti and meatballs,” he said, as we sat. “Nothing too fancy, but I thought maybe you could use some comfort food.”

I stared at the heaping pile of spaghetti covered with red sauce and meatballs and felt like crying all over again. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

“Because you’re hungry. And because I care about you.”

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