“A girl? You were bringing a girl here? Wait till I tell Granddad!”
“Don’t bother,” Zan said through gritted teeth. “She probably never wants to see me again, after all that blood.”
“Oh, shit.” Jamie looked dejected beneath his spattered gore. “Don’t tell me I derailed your love life the minute it got going. I can go with you, if you want. I can explain that we were just—”
“Christ, no,” Zan cut in. “For God’s sake, don’t try to help me. You look like something out of a zombie splatter film.”
“So do you, buddy,” Jamie observed cheerfully. “The difference is that your nose is genuinely mashed into bloody paste, and mine isn’t.”
Zan declined to respond as he stumbled for the elevator.
Abby’s sore feet throbbed, despite the hot bath and soothing ointment. She tore herself away from the vacuous reality show and shuffled to the kitchen. She’d hauled out all her comfort props: flannel pajamas, afghan, cocoa with marshmallows, bunny slippers, the New Age CD that usually put her practically into a coma, all ocean waves and bird cheeps. Nothing worked. There was no comfort to be had.
She stung all over, as if she’d been slapped. She was so rattled, so humiliated. The cop who brought her home had tried not to smirk while he explained to her what had happened. How stupid she had been.
She’d done it again. Made a public ass of herself because of a sexy man. A fight rehearsal for a theatrical production, for the love of God. Unbelievable. At least it had been real enough to fool Zan, too, though that wasn’t much comfort. She would never forgive him for that interval of agonizing fear, thinking he could be bleeding to death in a warehouse lot. She’d felt so useless and weak. She was pathetically glad that Zan was OK, but the feeling lingered on, like a bruise.
She thought of the brandy, but dismissed the idea. She never drank when she was alone. Particularly not when she was miserable. A stiff drink took the edge off, but that led to the land of bad, sad, awful things. Watching her mother all those years had taught her that much.
Of course, lots of paths led to the land of bad, sad, awful things. She seemed to be mapping out new, original paths to it every single day.
She wished she could call Elaine, but she didn’t want to piss off Mysterious Mark and ruin her friend’s evening. The only weapon left was the Fudge Ripple. She was going to expand right out of her clothes, but so what? Who was she trying to stay slim for?
She rooted through the silverware drawer for her ice cream spoon. The rap on the door made the silverware sorter leap out of her hands. Utensils crashed and tinkled to the floor. She stared at the door, her heart tripping so fast she thought she might faint.
She peered out the peephole. Zan’s somber face, battered and swollen, gave her a jolt, keen and painful. Anger and hopeless longing.
He looked through the door, as if he could see right through it into her eyes. “Abby. Please open the door. We have to talk.”
“No, we don’t,” she called back. “Go away, Zan.”
“No,” he said. “Not until we talk.”
It occurred to her that he could open her lock in seconds.
He knocked again. “Please, Abby.” His voice was soft, pleading.
She wanted to open it so badly. Why did she never want what was good for her? She propped her forehead against the door and started sobbing silently. It was so freaking hard to do the right thing.
When the tears finally eased off, she mopped her eyes on the sleeve of her bathrobe, figuring he must have left. She peeked out the peephole. Gone. The disappointment that flashed through her was wildly irrational. She yanked the door open to make sure.
He was sitting on the steps. She dragged in a startled breath.
He looked around, and rose to his feet. “Hey, Abby.” He took a step toward her and held out her sandals. “These are yours.”
She took them, stared at her dangling footwear. “Thanks.”
“Your feet all right?” he asked.
Her swollen feet throbbed. “Fine.” She yanked his jacket off the hook by the door and thrust it at him. “Here. We’re even. Good night.”
“I’m not going until we talk,” he said.
“I’m not in the mood to talk,” she said.
“So I’ll wait until you are in the mood,” he said. “I’m patient.”
“Yeah,” she said bitterly. “You told me that. You told me a lot of things. Maybe you should just go home and get some sleep.”
“I never sleep at night,” he told her.
“Oh. Well, fortunately, that is not my problem. So go do whatever it is that you do at night, if you don’t sleep. Bye.”
“You have to let me explain,” he said.
She held up a warning hand. “Oh, no need for that. The nice patrolman explained it all to me. While trying not to laugh in my face.”
He winced. “I’m sorry.”
“Huh. Me too.” She looked more closely at his face. His nose was puffy, his eye swollen half shut. “You look awful,” she said bluntly.
His mouth twitched. “Yeah. My brother popped me a good one to get me under control.”
“How lovely. What pleasant siblings you must have. This would be the brother who’s in the Shakespeare play? The fountain of blood?”
“No, the fountain of blood was Jamie, my youngest brother. The one who punched me was Christian, the next to youngest.”
“So you had two brothers involved in the fake massacre. Is this a form of sibling rivalry? Do they play this kind of trick on you often?”
“I actually have three brothers,” he offered. “There’s Jack, the oldest. I have a little sister, too. Her name’s Fiona. She’s twenty-five.”
“I shudder to think of what your family gatherings must be like.”
He smiled briefly at that. “Hey, so do I, sometimes.”
She didn’t smile back, and the silence grew heavy and cold.
“Abby,” he said. “Please. I didn’t know about the fight rehearsal. I had a terrible scare, too, and I feel just as stupid. Forgive me. Please.”
She stared up at the moon. “Maybe you have no idea what I went through. First, I witness a gruesome murder. Then I see you dive into the middle of it. I leave you to get help, and feel like garbage because I couldn’t save you. I was sure you were dead, or dying. And then, I find out that it’s just a big, funny joke, and I am the butt of it.”
“No, Abby,” he pleaded. “Nobody thinks that.”
“I’m glad that you weren’t killed. Don’t get me wrong. But it was tough, you know? First, the horror, and then I get to feel stupid, too.”
He rubbed his face, gingerly. “God,” he muttered. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what else I can say, except that I bet it was worse for me than it was for you. I practically killed an innocent guy tonight.”
An explosive sound, half bitter laughter, half sob, burst out of her. “God, Zan. Is that little detail actually supposed to comfort me?”
He