Chapter 29
By tacit understanding, we didn’t joke about pizza or benefits after that. We did, however, make love twice more. I, by some miracle, woke up before Malone the next morning. He slept on his back with his head resting on his right arm, so I could see the tattoo that wrapped around his bicep.
I had traced it with my tongue.
Kinda wanted to do it again.
As he slept, hair mussed, eyelashes longer than any man’s had a right to be, a deep longing ballooned inside me, threatening to burst. This was what I’d thought I had with Ken. This was what I wanted.
No, not the sex, although, yes, the sex.
What I wanted was to go through life with someone who so clearly saw who I was but didn’t feel the need to change me, someone who not only loved me but—
There’s absolutely no indication that Malone loves you.
Maybe I had been so starved for basic consideration and affection that I was confusing that for love.
What was it Havisham had said? That the patriarchy was a helluva drug and too many men were getting high on their own stash?
Here was a man who went to what felt like an insane amount of trouble for me.
Only one in a million would’ve walked away from me, giving up a quick pleasure for a longer one, on what I now referred to as the Day I Almost Desecrated My Dining Room Table.
So of course he’s going back to California. Of course we won’t even have the chance to see if this relationship has legs.
He had mentioned researching a move to Atlanta for her, though . . .
But had what happened in his previous relationship soured him on long-distance relationships?
Talk about putting the cart before the horse, Stella. One night of sex does not a relationship make.
No matter what happened from this point forward, I knew one thing: I would rather be a cat lady than put up with another hollow substitute for a fulfilling relationship.
I wasn’t going back to Ken, and I wasn’t going to waste my time with anyone like him.
“Stark, why are you staring at me so intently?” Malone’s voice rumbled through me.
There were many things I could’ve said. I could’ve asked where he’d been my whole life. I could’ve asked him to stay, but my pride chafed at that. No, I’d stick to the terms of our arrangement—i.e., that this was temporary. I finally settled for a cheeky, “One for the road?”
He frowned, but it was only when he thumbed away my tears that I realized I was crying.
“Hey, hey. I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
“No, oh no. Far from it,” I said, a sob escaping despite my best efforts.
He drew me closer so that my cheek lay on his chest and then kissed the top of my head. “Then I can only conclude someone else has.”
I snorted. “Maybe.”
“Are you trying to crack a joke in the middle of what is obviously trauma?”
“Maybe.”
“You know, I’d hoped for breakfast in bed, maybe that one for the road you mentioned, but I’m afraid we now only have time to cuddle for ten minutes.”
“But I’m comfortable where I am, and checkout isn’t until eleven,” I said, even as a tear slid down my cheek. “Why only ten minutes?”
“Because at that time, I will have to hunt down the person and/or people who hurt you and beat them up.”
I laughed through a sob.
What a mess I was.
I slithered on top of him and began to kiss him with a desperation that scared me.
It was a desperation full of fear that he would leave, that I would be wrecked, or, even worse, that I wouldn’t be wrecked but would be left utterly numb once again.
But most of all, it was a fear that I didn’t deserve the affection he’d so lavishly bestowed on me.
“Banana pepper.”
I froze.
He was done with me already? I rolled off the bed and went to the window to peek at our mountain view at least once.
Doing so had the added advantage that Malone couldn’t see my tears.
For heaven’s sake, why did they have to show up right now?
I didn’t cry when I discovered Ken was sleeping around on me.
Or any of the times my mother left. Or even—
Nope. Not going there.
This was all Brené Brown’s fault—the author’s, not the cat’s. Some of that vulnerability I’d been reading about must’ve rubbed off on me.
I wasn’t a fan.
“What is going on in that beautiful head of yours?” he asked.
So much, Malone. So much—and none of it good.
When I didn’t answer, he continued, “For the record, I would love to make love to you again, but I have this pesky rule against having sex with women who are crying. Silly, I know.”
“Nope. Not silly,” I said, trying to get myself together. “You are just so . . .”
“Oh no,” he muttered. “This isn’t going to be good.”
“Wholesome.”
“Wholesome?”
I turned around, furiously wiping my tears away. “Yes. Like Captain America. Or Superman.”
He sat up and patted the bed beside him. “That sounds like something you say before you let a guy down easy. And here I thought I was pretty filthy last night.”
“You were,” I said, as flashes of assorted positions and sensations from the night before flitted through my mind. “But you were also so kind, and I . . . am not.”
He looked at me as though I were off my rocker. “Of course you are.”
“No, oh no.”
The damned tears were back.
“Stella Stark, what are you talking about?”
“If you are the hero, then I am the villain. You remember the puzzle piece story I told you, don’t you?”
He laughed. “You were a child!”
I took in a deep breath. “Remember when you said your grandfather was petty?”
“Yeah, and?”
“I am Little Miss Petty. I do mean things to people. Sure, in my mind they deserve it, but that doesn’t change the fact that I’m doing mean things. The other day I suggested someone bring in a sweater full of cat hair so a mansplainer, who is allergic to cats, I might add, would shut up.”
He fought a smile.
“I suggested one person use a dog whistle at night so their neighbor’s dog would bark and keep them awake.”
“What had the neighbor done, though?”
“Claim that her dog never barked while she was at work. In all actuality, the dog barked all day long.”
His expression was oddly neutral. “I know I haven’t known you that long, but I can’t see you being petty, much less mean.”
So I told him about Salcedo and what I’d done to Tanner.
“You publicly embarrassed a tool and exposed his sexist ways, probably saved Salcedo both heartache and venereal disease, but you’re the bad person here?”
“He sure seemed to think so.” Then I told Malone about the flamingos.
He snorted. “He had it coming.”
Finally, in frustration, I said, “Malone, I tried to get revenge on you.”
“What? Why?”
There. There was some anger, finally. Well, irritation, really. I wasn’t entirely certain Malone experienced the sort of bone-crushing rage that sometimes took over me.
“The Habitat for Humanity thing? I did that.”
He frowned in confusion. “But you went to the worksite and helped. You told me they must’ve knocked on my door by mistake.”
I shook my head. “No mistake. All carefully orchestrated.”
“Why?”
“Trista hired me to deliver some comeuppance to Blake, and she told me Blake lived in your apartment—”
“Which he did until a few months ago.”
“I figured he—well, you—would cuss them out and then slam the door in their faces.”
“You thought Blake would do a Habitat build?” He laughed to the point of his own tears.
“And Habitat didn’t deserve to suffer, so I was in my work clothes and ready to go so they wouldn’t be short a volunteer.”
“So you, a supposedly mean person, took into consideration the feelings of volunteers and made a plan to make up for any damage you might do?”
“Yes, but that’s not the point.” I threw up my hands in exasperation, but my boobs jiggled, thus undermining the overall effect. “I’m thinking about it now, and I shouldn’t have put volunteers into a position where they might be yelled at just to put someone else in an awkward position.”
“All’s well that ends well, Stark,” he said. “I don’t think you’re going to make a habit of it.”
“That’s not all. I told Mrs. Q to make one of her awful casseroles for you.”
His mouth dropped open. “Now that’s diabolical, Stark. What did I ever do to you to deserve that?”
“Nothing! That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. I’m an awful person. I take money to do petty things to other people.”
“Who paid you to make me eat that casserole?”
“Trista.”
“So you weren’t trying to get revenge on me—you were trying to get revenge on Blake.”
“Yes!”
“You silly, silly woman,” he said, his eyes radiating kindness. “You’re not mean. You just have a keen sense of justice.”
I sat agape. This was what it must have felt like to be truly seen, because Malone kept seeing only the good in my motives. He had easily observed something I only partially knew about myself.
One woman’s petty was another’s poetic justice.
“Wait a minute,” he said with a frown. “Did you mail those ladybugs to me?”
“That was not me,” I said.
He laid his head against the wall. “Thank God.”
“But it was a seed I planted.”
He groaned, and I told him the whole tale of Trista, Addie, and “All Too Well.”
“So let me get this straight: You thought a thirteen-year-old girl might do something to irritate Blake, only it was really me, and all because he doesn’t like Taylor Swift?”
“I mean, when you put it like that, it does sound ridiculous, but I figure you should never underestimate a middle schooler, and lo and behold if she didn’t out-petty the original Little Miss Petty. Truly impressive.”
He frowned. “I don’t know if you should encourage that sort of behavior.”
“What happened to my ‘keen sense of justice’?”
He sighed and stared me down, but he was struggling to keep from smiling. “I think enlisting a teen in your revenge business could be considered contributing to the delinquency of a minor.”
“No, no,” I said automatically, “I didn’t encourage her to do anything illegal. Besides, you have to admit the deadpan ‘look what you made me do’ was hilarious.”
His expression didn’t soften.
“Lay. Dee. Bugs. A thirteen-year-old came up with the idea of mailing you ladybugs and then implemented that plan. Complete with a punny note. There they were, all flying around.”
The corners of his mouth twitched in a way I was beginning to love a little too much.
“If it really had been Blake, you would’ve thought it was hilarious.”
“Well, I’m not Blake—thank God—so I tell you what—”
“What?”
“I truly detest insects, but bygones will be bygones as long as you do one thing for me.”
“What’s that?”
“Tell Addie that you had me confused with someone else and that I like Taylor Swift . . . ‘All Too Well.’”
My mouth opened and closed. Had he just made a joke from a Taylor Swift song title? To get me to do something I didn’t want to do in the least? Was this what payback felt like?
“But why? What does it matter?”
“First of all, you have impugned my honor. Second, I would hate to see what she might do next.”
Make friendship bracelets that shocked? Burn his pictures? Write a song about him? “That’s a fair point. I’ll do it.”
“Today.”
“Today?”
“Yes, today.”
“Fine. But only if you’ll join me in the shower.”
“You drive a hard bargain, Stark.” His eyes twinkled as he scrubbed one hand over his lightly bearded chin in faux deliberation. “I guess I should take a shower to maintain my wholesome image.”
I smacked his arm.
“Or I could be filthy and then we could head to the shower.”
We almost got distracted a second time while getting dressed, but we had only ten minutes before checkout. I suggested we revisit my table once we returned to the apartments, and that gave us motivation to hurriedly put our formalwear back on.
“Is it a walk of shame, if we’re both wearing the same clothes we wore yesterday?” I asked as we entered the elevator together, holding hands once more.
“I’m not ashamed of a damn thing,” Malone said. “I’m gonna walk out of here with my head held high. Yes, I am carrying a bag of condoms, rose petals, and little electric candle thingies. Yes, I did have sex multiple times with this beautiful woman. This is a walk of pride.”
His enthusiasm warmed me from the inside out, although a nasty little voice inside asked, What if this is all he wanted? Now that he’s had sex with you, he’ll leave.
I told that part of me to hush. We already had a date with my dining room table, so those old patterns of thinking were patently false.
The drive back to our apartments was much quicker than the trip to the hotel had been.
For one, there was less traffic in the middle of the day.
More importantly, however, I’d given Malone incentive to drive faster.
At one point he showed irritation at someone driving slowly in front of him.
I didn’t say anything, but it gave me joy to see him acting as a mere mortal would.
“Oh, I think I forgot something,” I said as we pulled into the apartment complex.
“What?” he asked, trying so hard to tamp down his annoyance that something else might delay us.
“My panties,” I said with a wicked grin, as I stuffed them in the front pocket of his suit jacket.
“You are going to be the death of—what the hell?”
I looked from him to our building and saw that once again his apartment door was open.