wouldn’t follow the pattern, would it?”
Her words smacked him in the chest.
She sighed and plopped her cup onto the table. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“No, it’s fine.” Not really, but…
She withdrew again, her gaze lingering on the street as if some deep thought were revealed there.
She needed to listen.
“The girl—Brooke—you know, the one I was with…” He waved his hand in the air, filling in the ugly blanks. At least he hadn’t been a wife beater. “We weren’t together long—”
“I don’t want to hear it.”
“Meg, I’m trying to—”
“Mike. Like you said, it’s in the past.”
Head lowered, she attacked her yogurt, stabbing and slicing. A small glob flew from her cup and landed on his wrist. “Sorry,” she said again.
He shrugged and wiped it off. What would make her listen—and consider his words? He whacked his plastic spoon against the table top, the spoon making a thwacking noise.
Meg looked pointedly at him.
He quit, and she returned to her yogurt.
“I’ve been doing well,” she told the pink slush. “I’ve got my own business. I work my own hours. I’m not rolling in money, but I make a good living. And I’m happy.”
That last one sounded like an afterthought. Mike reached for her hand, his fingertips skimming her nails as she pulled away. “Are you?”
Her hand fluttered to her hair, pulling strands over her shoulder in a familiar gesture he’d forgotten. “It’s late,” she said. “Terrell needs a bath.” She fumbled for her purse, knocking it beneath the picnic table.
Mike snagged it before she could. “We were good together, Meg. Now we’ve got Terrell. We can’t just quit.”
She stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. “I didn’t quit.”
“Let’s go out then, you and me.”
She leaned for her purse, but he pulled it out of reach. She huffed at him, hands fisted. “Why would I do that, Mike?”
Never had words hurt so much. “Have you forgotten how much fun we had?”
“No, you had that problem.”
He ground his teeth into a closed-mouth smile. In case she’d forgotten… “Neither one of us was perfect.”
Her eyes flashed. “ I wasn’t the one who had an affair!”
“So it’s all my fault we got divorced?”
Meg picked up her cup, half-full of strawberry yogurt, and hurled it at him.
Chapter Eleven
Her yogurt landed with a slosh on his chest. Mike leaped from the table, stunned by the sudden cold.
The cup fell to the ground but not before most of the yogurt, a freezing mush, spilled across his shirt and soaked through the cotton fabric and T-shirt underneath. He bent at the waist, trying to shake off the cold mess sliding down his skin.
“Say goodbye to your father, Terrell.”
Where was she going? Mike straightened to see Meg tugging a forlorn Terrell toward the sidewalk. The icy cloth burned his skin again, and he jerked the shirt from his stomach. “Meg!”
They disappeared past a house.
Her yogurt cup lay upside down on the grass. Gritting his teeth, Mike smashed it with his foot and ground it into the dirt.
Pink squirted up around the sides of his shoes.
“Perfect,” he snarled. He snatched the flattened paper cup and hurled it into a trash can. The remainder of his sundae joined it.
Nice of Meg to throw the blame on him. Literally. He swiped a layer of pink off his shirt. So much for tonight. He shook his hand until most of the yogurt fell to the ground, then flexed his fingers, the yogurt sticky on his skin.
He stormed for his Range Rover, then backtracked to wipe his hands in a thick patch of grass. His jeans would have to do for the rest. He yanked his front pocket linings inside out and rubbed them between his fingers until his skin felt cleaner.
What now? He jerked open the driver’s door and climbed in.
No way was he going home yet. He drummed his fingers—his cleanish fingers—on the steering wheel. If he could get her to laugh, she’d thaw a little.
Thaw. Nice
Her words smacked him in the chest.
She sighed and plopped her cup onto the table. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“No, it’s fine.” Not really, but…
She withdrew again, her gaze lingering on the street as if some deep thought were revealed there.
She needed to listen.
“The girl—Brooke—you know, the one I was with…” He waved his hand in the air, filling in the ugly blanks. At least he hadn’t been a wife beater. “We weren’t together long—”
“I don’t want to hear it.”
“Meg, I’m trying to—”
“Mike. Like you said, it’s in the past.”
Head lowered, she attacked her yogurt, stabbing and slicing. A small glob flew from her cup and landed on his wrist. “Sorry,” she said again.
He shrugged and wiped it off. What would make her listen—and consider his words? He whacked his plastic spoon against the table top, the spoon making a thwacking noise.
Meg looked pointedly at him.
He quit, and she returned to her yogurt.
“I’ve been doing well,” she told the pink slush. “I’ve got my own business. I work my own hours. I’m not rolling in money, but I make a good living. And I’m happy.”
That last one sounded like an afterthought. Mike reached for her hand, his fingertips skimming her nails as she pulled away. “Are you?”
Her hand fluttered to her hair, pulling strands over her shoulder in a familiar gesture he’d forgotten. “It’s late,” she said. “Terrell needs a bath.” She fumbled for her purse, knocking it beneath the picnic table.
Mike snagged it before she could. “We were good together, Meg. Now we’ve got Terrell. We can’t just quit.”
She stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. “I didn’t quit.”
“Let’s go out then, you and me.”
She leaned for her purse, but he pulled it out of reach. She huffed at him, hands fisted. “Why would I do that, Mike?”
Never had words hurt so much. “Have you forgotten how much fun we had?”
“No, you had that problem.”
He ground his teeth into a closed-mouth smile. In case she’d forgotten… “Neither one of us was perfect.”
Her eyes flashed. “ I wasn’t the one who had an affair!”
“So it’s all my fault we got divorced?”
Meg picked up her cup, half-full of strawberry yogurt, and hurled it at him.
Chapter Eleven
Her yogurt landed with a slosh on his chest. Mike leaped from the table, stunned by the sudden cold.
The cup fell to the ground but not before most of the yogurt, a freezing mush, spilled across his shirt and soaked through the cotton fabric and T-shirt underneath. He bent at the waist, trying to shake off the cold mess sliding down his skin.
“Say goodbye to your father, Terrell.”
Where was she going? Mike straightened to see Meg tugging a forlorn Terrell toward the sidewalk. The icy cloth burned his skin again, and he jerked the shirt from his stomach. “Meg!”
They disappeared past a house.
Her yogurt cup lay upside down on the grass. Gritting his teeth, Mike smashed it with his foot and ground it into the dirt.
Pink squirted up around the sides of his shoes.
“Perfect,” he snarled. He snatched the flattened paper cup and hurled it into a trash can. The remainder of his sundae joined it.
Nice of Meg to throw the blame on him. Literally. He swiped a layer of pink off his shirt. So much for tonight. He shook his hand until most of the yogurt fell to the ground, then flexed his fingers, the yogurt sticky on his skin.
He stormed for his Range Rover, then backtracked to wipe his hands in a thick patch of grass. His jeans would have to do for the rest. He yanked his front pocket linings inside out and rubbed them between his fingers until his skin felt cleaner.
What now? He jerked open the driver’s door and climbed in.
No way was he going home yet. He drummed his fingers—his cleanish fingers—on the steering wheel. If he could get her to laugh, she’d thaw a little.
Thaw. Nice
Similar Books
