Page 82 of The Fix-Up

Or a week. Probably just a week.

“What time is it?” I asked, feeling that 4a.m. wake-up coming back to haunt me.

“A little after nine.”

I groaned and buried my face in a pillow. “I’m so tired. Can you stop pacing?”

“No.”

I sat up. “Why not?”

“Because.”

“Would it kill you to say more than one word at a time?”

“Yes.”

I sat up and hiked a throw pillow at his head. It hit the target; I was impressed. Gil wasn’t. But he did sit on the other side of the bed, all silent and brooding and grumpy and annoyed.

“Your anxiety is going to make my anxiety start and then we’ll just be two anxious people trapped in a room together and we might get desperate. We might, I don’t know, seek comfort in each other’s arms.”

“What?” he said, his voice strangled.

“See? It could be worse.”

“This is because you read those romance novels.”

“Excuse me?”

“They’re all over the house. Found one in the bathroom, on the couch. Even found one next to the milk in the refrigerator. I don’t want to see a half-naked man mauling a woman when I’m trying to make breakfast.”

I laid back down and crossed my arms. “Whatever.”

“Although the pirate thing surprised me.”

“Okay. Okay. I got it.”

“Actually, the romance novels in general. You really into that?” The bed dipped and groaned as he stretched out on it.

“Mae and Ali are making me read them.”

“Why?”

I nibbled my bottom lip before I flipped on my side to face him. He was lying on his back, hands folded behind his head at the very edge of the bed, as though he wanted to be as far away from me as humanly possible. I almost laughed out loud. Sometimes I wondered if he was afraid of me.

“I have a broken man picker.”

Slowly he turned his head. “A broken what?”

“Man picker. I can’t pick out the good ones. They’re always deadbeats, losers, bums, weirdos, emotionally unavailable, jerks or a combination of any and all of the above. My therapist Sunny says I attract them because I need to love myself first before I find a partner who will love me like I deserve. I’m working on that.”

He was quiet for a moment before asking, “So then Oliver’s dad…”

“Ah, yes. Oliver’s dad has seen him exactly twice his whole life. Sometimes he sends a birthday card. Occasionally a present that’s completely inappropriate. Last Christmas, he sent him a pocketknife.”

“Sounds like a nice guy.”

“If there’s a jerk anywhere in a ten-mile radius, he will find me. I will fall for him, and it will end badly for me.” I stared at the stitching on the blue floral quilt covering Ollie’s bed. “I’m oversharing. Sorry.”

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