Page 120 of Pick-Up
“You didn’t say goodbye,” I say. Because I have no impulse control.
“Neither did you.”
“I guess that’s true. But you also didn’t show up at the shoot. I figured I’d see you there at least. And you didn’t wish me a safe flight. What if I had died in a plane crash?”
“That’s statistically unlikely. Planes rarely crash.”
“Okay. What if the person in the seat next to me was an assassin and put poison in my ginger ale? Is that likely enough for you?”
“Then I would have been very sad. And also confused about why someone would need to assassinate you. I mean, you’re frustrating, but…”
“Probably for the same reason a murderer would break into the building,” I deadpan. There’s a weighty pause. “You still haven’t explained why you disappeared.”
“I needed a minute to think.”
“About?”
“About how angry you got at me when I asked you to stay.”
My mouth drops open. This is not what I expect him to say. Nor is it the way I would have characterized what happened that night in paradise. “Asked me tostay?”
“Yes! I realize now that what I saw as a chance for us to have one more day away together seemed to you like me putting you in a bad position with your kids—”
He thought he was asking me to stay—withhim?
I shake my head clear. “And in front of coworkers!” I blurt out.
“Yes. Although, I can’t take all the credit for ratcheting things up in front of the entireEscapadestaff at dinner. You got so pissed.”
I roll my eyes. Fine. Maybe I was somewhat complicit. Not as complicit as he is.
“Anyway.” He takes a step closer to me, so, if I had the guts and the gall, I could easily reach out and touch his face, his arms, that dimple.
I restrain one hand with the other behind my back, using my shoulder to prop the door.
“After you left, I felt horrible,” he continues. “I didn’t want to call because that just seemed cheap. So, this is me, apologizing in person for not getting it. For not gettingyou. And also for letting my fears about the shoot failing without you guide my response. I’m just so stressed out about this story turning out well, about losing my job or losingtheirjobs. I let my desire to spend time with you, and capitalize on your expertise, get in the way of listening. Please forgive me.”
Wanting to spend time with me? Listening? Capitalize on my expertise? Ethan thinks I’m good at my job! I know it’s wrong, but I’m flattered. Apparently, it doesn’t take much.
So he hadn’t been questioning my choices, calling me a “helicopterparent” or doubting my work ethic? He just wanted another go in the outdoor shower? He wanted to make sure we finished the project strong?
Damn. If only I had realized instead of jumping to conclusions. If only we had communicated better. We could have had that last night. Made use of that adjoining door. I never even saw his sex den. I mean, room.
I am so lost in this reverie, at sea in his eyes, awash in memories of the shower stream, that I forget to respond.
He shifts on his feet. “So, is that a good blank stare or a bad blank stare?”
“Why didn’t you tell me you were so stressed?”
He shrugs. “I tried to, but I couldn’t spell it out in front of the others. They don’t totally know what’s at stake. Derek mostly does. But the others don’t at all. And then I didn’t realize exactly what had happened until you were gone. I know. It was stupid.”
He looks truly defeated.
The truth is, I can hardly fault someone else for not knowing their mind. I’m too absorbed in the ping-pong match in my own head to even construct a basic email.
“Okay,” I say. “I accept that this was a misunderstanding. And maybe I overreacted.”
“Maybe?” He scrunches his nose.
