me gone," she replied, heated. "And this has been fun but I'd be a massive fool to think you don't still want that."
"Yeah, I did," I admitted. At one time, showing Tara the door was the best option available to me. I didn't want to want her and I wasn't prepared to make room for her in my life. No more than the room she'd already claimed with her quirky voices and rainbow shoes and all that vanilla. "But not anymore. I swear, that's not my intention. You're right; I don't want to deal with early elementary. I'm sorry about—about everything."
"The King of Dartmouth apologizing? Wow." She bobbed her head, her eyes wide as she considered this. "You know, I've tried to give you the benefit of the doubt."
"Oh, did you?" I replied, immediately suspicious of this announcement. "Really? When was that? When you were inventing Fun-bruary and incinerating my entire school spirit schedule? Or was it when you developed a new observation and debrief cycle protocol and destroyed my perfectly good system of pluses, minuses, and deltas and replaced it with some fucking glows and grows? Or generally making the entire staff fall in love with you—myself included—because you're so warm and generous and you make everyone feel like a special sunbeam while I'm busy scheduling the delivery of our quarterly inquiry science kits since I don't do songs and skits and Fun-bruary?"
Lifting her chin and giving me the most ruthless little scowl she could manage, she said, "Yesterday. Coffee station. While you were assessing the milk and sugar situation despite your allegiance to Team Black and Bitter."
"What are you talking about?"
"You didn't like the mix and mingle portion of the morning. You were over there, studying up on sweeteners and trying to avoid the world."
How the fuck had she noticed that? "What are you talking about?" I repeated.
"I tried to save you from that situation." She jerked a shoulder up as if it was perfectly ordinary for her to see straight into my weaknesses and soft spots. "Tried to get between you and the awkward introductions, the small talk. That and the gals angling to be the bread in a Drew sandwich."
"The bread in a—what? Now you're just inventing stories the way you invented your Dr. Division character who made my fourth graders obsessed with math surgery."
"You really must be more careful about those gray trousers, sweetie. Yesterday was not the first time you had eyes all over your ass. And it wasn't the first time you slaughtered my willingness to give you a chance."
"I don't understand anything you just said," I started, "but I am sorry about how I responded yesterday. At the coffee station. I was a dick and you didn't deserve that."
There. That wasn't so difficult. Truthfully, everything was easier when cozied up in bed with Tara. If needed, I could confess all of my mistakes and errors so long as I could keep both hands on her naked body.
She brought her hand to her chest, which gave me a grand opportunity to study her outrageously perfect curves. "I don't know how to handle all these apologies. I'd like to believe them but—"
"Tell me more about Christmas Eve," I said, resting my head between her breasts because everything was better there. "Tell me about pineapple sauce."
"Why?" she asked, sliding her fingers through my hair. "Why do you want that?"
"Because I don't want to think about the terrible things I've said to you and the inexcusable way I've behaved. I know what I've done. I want to pretend I'm allowed to love you and maybe, in some wild version of my life, you love me too."
"Why aren't you allowed to love me, Drew?"
"Please reference the previously mentioned terrible things and inexcusable behavior. The rules of thought don't allow for those types of incompatible events, not unless you're a true nihilist. Even then, a true nihilist never would've fallen down this rabbit hole. Nah, a nihilist would've walked away a year ago. More. A nihilist would've bailed out after a week of watching you play with your hair every afternoon. Would've known better."
She was silent for a moment, her nails lightly scraping my neck and scalp. Then, "We don't actually do anything on Christmas. That might be weird but I've never thought of it that way. Just a big feast on Christmas Eve and a drunken stumble down the block for midnight mass. That's the part that matters to my mother. She's a purist when it comes