“I’ve got to work.”
“You said?—”
“There’s always work to be done. Always another job.”
“I want to work on the house for Mini M with you. I think you should put me in charge of painting it. You’re very clearly color-blind.”
“I’m not,” I said, offended. “I have 20-20 vision. All the better to see me with, baby.”
Her top lip pinched up on one side. “If you’re not color-blind, then you have zero excuse for that color combination. Or this wallpaper. The whole house, actually.” Her voice became wheedling. “Come on, Mike, I want to paint Mini M’s palace for you. You’re bad at this stuff and I’m good at it. Let me help.”
I shook my head. “I don’t need help. You focus on getting ready for your girls’ trip. Call Cilla now. And Lia. Tell them they have to drive because you’re not driving.”
She rolled her eyes and made a bleugh sound.
I abandoned the plates in the sink and turned, jabbing a finger at her before I realized I was doing it. “I mean it, Lyssa. Don’t fuck with me on this. I know you think I’m being overbearing, but it’s important. Especially down in Queenstown, those roads are a death trap for tourists. And anyone they might hit.”
Her hands flew up, palms out. “I know! I’m sorry. I rolled my eyes because it’s frustrating that you think I would still insist on driving after you’ve made your feelings so clear. I heard you when you said it was important, okay, Mike? And I know why. I know,” she repeated, her eyes widening meaningfully. “Do you really think I would disregard that?”
“You know?” I felt like the floor had been tugged out from under me.
“Yes. And I’m not going to drive here if I don’t have to. You don’t have to keep saying it like I don’t understand, or I’m not listening. I do. And I am. You think I can’t see that this upsets you? Even if I didn’t know why you were saying this, Mike, I would listen. I don’t like when you’re upset.”
My tongue got thick. This blindsided me in a way that was hard to explain. I liked to think I kept all the deep, sore feelings locked under an easy smile. For her to see through the cracks and then reach her long nails into a crevice and pry me open … I was scrambling.
When I still couldn’t find the words to reply, Lyssa slipped between me and the sink and put her hand on my chest. “I know I can be self-absorbed,” she whispered. “But not on stuff like this, Mike. Trust me. I’ve heard you.”
All I could do was reach up and pat the hand she had on my chest, and nod.
Lyssa stretched up on her toes and kissed my cheek. “You’re right that I should get out of Woodville and explore. I get why you don’t want to fool around with me anymore. You’re right, I know you are. I’m going soon. And you have plans and think that I would jeopardize them. We can’t be more than this. It’s for the best.”
“Sucks, though,” I admitted in a low voice, my hand still over hers.
Saying this was as close as I could get to saying what I wanted to. It simultaneously felt like admitting way too much and nowhere near enough.
We couldn’t be more than this. We weren’t a pair of shoes and it would never work between us. I’d known that for a long time. Far before the idea had even occurred to her.
It felt violently awful to have to make her see this my way, but I was an expert at gritting my teeth and doing what I had to do for the sake of the people around me.
“Sucks,” she agreed.
It would have to do.
CHAPTER 16
LYSSA
In Wellington, I sat at an outdoor table at an amazing seafood restaurant with Lia and Cilla, comparing our boutique shopping hauls. After seeing WOW—the show which made us say the title at least a hundred times—we walked along the waterfront, licking ice creams that made me think of Mike. We braved the city’s notorious wind to hike up to the best viewpoint of the whole city, and then later that night watched even braver souls take a Fall (Autumn, they called it!) dip in the freezing harbor.
Lia had to go home after Wellington, but Cilla and I continued our adventure.
On the flight to the South Island to go to Queenstown, I demolished the tiny cookie the flight attendant gave me and tried not to miss Mike. You couldn’t miss what you literally had never had.
But as Cilla and I sipped and spat our way through the vineyards of Otago, I had to admit that I did miss Mike, and the feeling was made so much worse by the knowledge that I’d only had a taste of what was possible between us. I’d found real pleasure in Mike’s arms—or in his bathtub, struggling for air under his hand, if you wanted to be technical about it. But neither of us could afford to be pulled off course. We were both too ambitious, too set on our respective courses. Compromise wasn’t a word in either of our vocabularies.
His shoe theory had merit.
As I bounced around on a jet boat over the Shotover River, while Cilla waved to me from the viewing platform, I resolved to put my focus back on my career. No more mustachioed-man-pining from me. I was moving forward.
