Page 47 of The Time It Takes

"Could you grab it?"he asked me, and I moved closer, trying to get my arm between his and table and get the little tag free before we inconvenienced the other people in line even more. We were like that, sort of tangled up, as I held onto him and finally got it loose, handed it over, and was trying to work my way free of the situation, when I heard a familiar (and dreaded) voice.

"Well well, if it isn't my old boyfriend." Darby's voice could cut glass, and she sounded pissed—but in the fake-nice way that said she was probably going to be able to fool everyone else about whether she was digging the knife in or just making an innocent remark.

I think I flinched. Arlie's whole body tightened up, and leaning against him felt a bit like snuggling up to a brick wall. I finally got free of him—and pulled out my wallet so we could pay fast and get out of there. I don't think my fingers were shaking, but maybe they were. I couldn't seem to get my credit card out.

I hadn't looked up at her, but that didn't stop her. She approached with a brittle smile in place. Her teeth had always been perfect, and her hair. She wasn't seen in public without looking just as she wanted to look. Today she looked dangerously fashionable, but much thinner. She'd always been slim, but now she had that high-fashion gauntness that was coming back into style. Was it from drugs, diet, or a health issue? I'd probably never know. It made her look older and worse, to me. She smelled like the same perfume, though.

"If it isn't my old flame." She squeezed my upper arm, hard. Her fingernails were just as sharp as ever. "And if it isn't your old 'friend.'" She gave Arlie a look that nobody would be able to construe as friendly.

I didn't want to do this at the checkout. I didn't want to do this at all.

"Darby," said Arlie, clearing his throat. "What are you up to these days?"

"Redecorating," she said breezily. "My boyfriend Mark and I bought a cozy little three story Victorian fixer-upper farmhouse."

Huh? I dared to glance around for this guy, but if he was here, he didn't make his presence felt. I finally made myself meet her eyes. There was judgment there, sure, but also a kind of knowing look.

My credit card went through. I signed something that I hoped was my signature and accepted the slip they gave me. It seemed to take forever. Arlie shuffled past, still awkwardly carrying the table, looking like he didn't know what to do.

Darby was looking at me, triumphant, waiting.

I cleared my throat. "That's what we're doing, too. Redecorating, I mean. Our place."

"Of course you are," she said in a condescending, almost pitying tone. "I'm glad you finally have the courage to be honest about who you are."

Words like that could mean a lot, if they were from the heart and not filled with spite. I'd almost have preferred her to call me a slur. It might have hurt less.

I shoved the receipt in my pocket and followed Arlie, fast.

"Are you okay?"asked Arlie, as soon as we were moving. He kept his eyes on the road. His voice was low and tense.

"No," I told him, my voice cracking a little. "But at least I don't have to go home with her. I get to go home with you."

He reached across and fumbled, till he found my hand, and held on, driving one-handed. I gave his hand a squeeze and looked out the window, trying to compose myself, trying to stop feeling like a piece of shit she'd needed to wipe off her shoe.

#

At home, we didn'ttalk about it right away. We got the table where it belonged. I started making supper, moving around the kitchen in a careful daze. I didn't like that she could still affect me like this.

I'd probably need to talk about it in therapy, which didn't exactly thrill me. I was so tired of talking about Darby. But she clearly wasn't completely out of my head yet. It had been an unlucky chance meeting, but it could happen again, and I needed to be prepared.

"That was brave of you, today," said Arlie, joining me cautiously in the kitchen. I noted—and then tried not to think about—how carefully he moved. Like he needed to avoid approaching me too quietly, too quickly. Like maybe I was breakable.

"What, admitting we live together?" I snorted. It didn't feel like it had meant much, that tiny admission, and it had certainly earned me her mean-spirited disdain.

He moved slightly to lean against the doorway, so he could stand near the stove but still see my face. "I didn't expect you to do that. It was a big deal."

I didn't look at him, and kept my focus on the stove, on the cooking. "She had a lot to say about me when we broke up, you know. A lot of shit to tell me about myself. This—today—was the nice version, the public face."

He took a careful breath. "She'd be the asshole, you know that, right?"

"What?"

"On the forums. Even strangers would agree. She was the asshole, not you. You know that, right?"

I shrugged. "Sure." I felt so empty inside. Hopefully I was just hungry. It felt kind of like I was spiraling, though. Those old, dark days of dating Darby, doubting myself so much, not understanding why it had to hurt so badly. I didn't want to go back to those feelings.

"She put you down constantly," he said, his voice resonant with quiet anger. "She tried to control everything about you—and she was getting too close to succeeding. You got out, and I'm so fucking glad you did. Whatever she thinks, you're not doing anything wrong by figuring yourself out and dating me."