“Don’t worry about it,” Tony replied as he moved the pizza box into the kitchen.
“That’s your thank you for helping me move,” I told his back, following him. “So you can’t pay for it.”
“Already did,” he told the kitchen, not looking back at me.
“So let me pay you back.”
“You paid me back by ordering it. I’m hungry and I hate calling to order. They put you on hold, like you got a year to order a pizza. We’re good,” he shared as he dumped the pizza on his friend’s kitchen table.
“It’s not paying someone back to order a pizza, Tony.”
His hazel eyes hit me. “It is when the person you’re paying back says it is.”
With one look into those eyes I knew I was going to get nowhere with this argument.
So I just whispered, “Tony.”
“Cady,” he replied, giving me a crooked grin that stated plainly he liked winning and it made big, bad, possibly felonious Tony Wilson look boyish and cute, something that made me, pathological fuckup Cady Webster, an even bigger moron because I could live just for the promise of another of those grins.
“I don’t even have beer,” I sniffed huffily, deciding to glare at him rather than think about how much I’d like to jump him (this an endeavor I’d been working at all day, we could just say Tony carting boxes and furniture was not hard to watch).
“You got Coke in any of that shit I lugged around today?” he asked.
I didn’t.
Damn!
He knew my answer without me having to verbalize it, grabbed the pizza to toss it in the oven and muttered while snatching up my hand (snatching up my hand), “Let’s go get some beer.”
“I’m buying the beer,” I proclaimed, and on doing so he stopped dragging me to the door and looked down at me.
“Which part about this aren’t you getting?” he asked.
“Uh . . . what?” I asked back, apparently not getting any part of it.
“Cady, I’m doin’ you a solid,” he shared. “Shit goes bad for you, you end up soused and alone in the Trench at Wild Bill’s fightin’ off two assholes then sittin’ on my tailgate bawlin’ your eyes out, and then layin’ a load of shit on me that life saw fit to land on you. First, guys don’t like to see women fighting off assholes. Second, guys do not like it when life lands a load of shit on sweet girls who are just tryin’ to make a go of things. And last, and this one might be almost as important as the fighting off assholes thing, guys do not like women crying. Gonna share somethin’ about the brotherhood that might get me a demerit since I’m breaking the code and blabbing one of our secrets, but guys have no fuckin’ clue what to do when women cry even a little bit. They’re completely lost when a woman loses it and bawls herself sick. So if I gotta buy a pizza and a six-pack so you can stay on the right path and no other shit will hit where I gotta consider carrying a handkerchief, please, God, let me.”
I wanted to kiss him.
He was being funny to hide how sweet he was actually being and I liked both enough to lay a hot and heavy one right on him.
But I couldn’t kiss him.
So I glared at him again. “I’m not a crier.”
His brows shot up over amused eyes. “Are you seriously laying that bull on me?”
“Things were extreme,” I explained.
“Yeah, I know, split the skin on one of my knuckles landing my fist in that guy’s face. So that didn’t really escape me,” he retorted.
Again with the funny but also mingled with me feeling bad he split the skin of one of his knuckles for me.
I did not remark on that.
I stated, “And I didn’t bawl myself sick.”
“It was close.”
I arched a brow and put my free hand on my hip. “Are we getting beer or what?”
That got me the crooked grin (yep, that grin made the world turn), a tug on my hand, and when he was dragging me to the front door, he answered, “We’re definitely getting beer.”
I shouldn’t go get beer with Tony Wilson.
I should serve him tap water with the pizza he bought, and as soon as he looked done with eating, shuffle him out the door and do my best never to see him again.
But I went to get beer with Tony Wilson.
I did this because it was coming clearer with each moment I spent with him that my life would never be the same if I never saw Tony Wilson again.
I was not ready for that to happen.
And something else far more alarming was coming clearer too.
This being the feeling that I probably never would be.
“So I’ll pick you up at nine.”
It was after pizza and beer and get-to-know-you talk with a lot of banter and Tony’s teasing.
Tony and I were standing at the door to my temporary new condo when he said that, confusing me.
“Sorry?” I asked.
“Saturday. Lars’s party. Pick you up here at nine.”
I stared up at him.
Was he asking me on a date?
Tony stared back but his confusion was not the same as mine, I knew, when he asked, “Didn’t Maria tell you about it?”
She’d called, left a message, but what with packing and avoiding her and all, I hadn’t had time to call her back. And she’d certainly call to invite me to a party.
“Well . . . no,” I answered.
“Right,” Tony stated. “Lars is havin’ a party. Saturday night. You said you worked seven to three thirty Saturday, three thirty to midnight Sunday. So you’re good to hit it and I’ll pick you up at nine so we can do that.”
I tipped my head to the side, deciding to explore this concept but do it carefully. “So in your quest to make certain I don’t burst into tears again, you’re not only acting as a house hunter, mover and pizza buyer, you’re also my self-appointed chauffer?”
To that, he had no response but to give me a lazy smile, lift a hand, touch the tip of his finger under the apple of my cheek, take his finger away nearly before he touched me and turn to open the door.
He walked out of it, caught my eyes over his shoulder and said, “Saturday. Nine.”
I guess that was that.
And I honestly didn’t have any problem with that (outside of Lars and maybe seeing Lonnie and Maria, and there was of course the problem of Tony perhaps not being a guy I should allow myself to fall for).
“Can I thank you for helping me move?” I asked as he started to turn and walk away.
My question didn’t stop him from turning and walking away, but he responded, “Yup.”
“Then thank you. Now can I thank you for finding this awesome pad for me?” I called to his departing back.
“You can do that too,” he returned, not even glancing over his shoulder.
“Then thank you again. Now can I warn you that I’m totally gonna find a way to give payback?” Now I had to kinda shout.
He lifted his hand and flicked it out at the side.
I didn’t know what to make of that and I had no chance to make anything of it.
The evening shadows beyond his friend’s little courtyard swallowed Tony up and I lost sight of him.
I still stood in the door, staring into the night after Tony, trying to talk some sense into myself and I did this for so long, the motion sensor light that illuminated the courtyard went out.
I closed the door thinking of nothing but the fact I did none of the heavy lifting that day, I didn’t pay for the pizza or the beer, Tony was picking me up on Saturday at nine and I could still feel the touch of his finger on my cheek.
In other words, I didn’t talk any sense into myself.
Instead, I wondered how important it was in life to be sensible.
And with Tony on my mind, I was coming to the conclusion the answer was . . . not much.
“So what’s up with that?”
I turned from openly watching Tony from my place planted in a spot in Lars’s living room, where I could see him standing talking to Lars in the kitchen, and I looked at Maria.
“What’s up with what?” I asked but I knew.
She hadn’t missed that Tony and I showed together and she really hadn’t missed that he was holding my hand when we walked in the front door.