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He doesn’t answer me. Not right away. He just sits there and scowls at me until I start to think that maybe he doesn’t remember. Finally, he opens his mouth. “You.”
I can feel myself take a beat. Blink at him like I don’t understand what he just said. “Pardon?”
He makes that sound again in the back of his throat and I realize it’s a laugh. Different than the one I heard last night. This one sounds like it hurts. “We were fighting about you.”
“Me? Why would you be fighting about me?” I sit back on my heels and shake my head. “You don’t even know me.”
“Cap’n told him I’m interested in you.” His gaze slips past me when he says it. “The two of them are like a couple of spinster aunts—couldn’t mind their own goddamned business if someone had a gun to their head,” he says, reminding me of what he said last night. That when he shows interest in anything, they get excited. Push him to pursue it. The something they’re pushing him to pursue is me. “They think I should…” He stalls out and shakes his head. “You don’t have to worry.” He grimaces, like he has a bad taste in his mouth, his fingers loosening their grip around mine. “I’m not—I mean, I don’t—shit.” He swipes his free hand over his face. “I’m not interested in you—like that.”
I was prepared for that. I was prepared for his rejection, because why would he want to take me to a movie or meet me for a cup of coffee somewhere—why would anyone? I’m an unemployed, uneducated single mom. What I’m not prepared for is how his rejection makes me feel. Hurt. Defensive. This time when I try to pull my hand out from under his, he lets me. “Is it because of Molly?” It’s a fair question. It usually is. If he says yes, I can tell myself that I dodged a bullet. That Molly and I are a package deal. That whether it’s a cup of coffee or a marriage proposal, whoever’s doing the asking needs to understand that she’s a part of me. She’s non-negotiable.
“What?” He looks at me like I just spit on him. “No.” He shakes his head, setting the wet muddy sweatshirt between us aside with an unceremonious plop in the dirt. “I’m just not… equipped.”
“Equipped?” I scoff at him. “Equipped for what?” Why am I pushing this? Why am I acting like he just broke up with me? Like Ryan and I are more than a couple of strangers that keep bumping into each other.
“Any of it.” His tone hardens and he looks away from me while he struggles to his feet. It takes him awhile. His legs moving slowly as he pulls them under him. They’re wobbly and unstable. Like they weren’t made to bear his weight. There are a few times I’m sure he’s going to fall on his face. I have to grip my ankles and grit my teeth to keep myself from offering to help him. From asking him if he needs it.
When he’s finally standing, he looks down at me, red-faced, his mouth set in a grim, hard line, and offers me his hand. I don’t want to take it, I can stand on my own, same as him, but I get the sense that it’s important to him that I do. That he be the one helping me.
Slipping my hand in his, I let him help me to my feet. As soon as I’m standing, he lets go of my hand. “Go inside, Grace,” he tells me, his tone dismissive and final. “Go inside, be with your family and leave me alone.”