Read Online Tart by Jody Gehrman - Free Book Online Page B

a mess.”
    He lets his eyes wander on a long, slow trip down my body; I start to blush furiously. By the time he’s looking atmy face again, I feel like an overheated tomato. “You look great,” he says, an impish glee in his eyes.
    â€œWell, whatever,” I reply. “Maybe there’s a taco joint or something?”
    â€œMmm, there’s a great place just a few blocks from here. Best carne asada you ever had in your life.”
    We get five minutes into Operation Chance to Explain and things are going all right, even if I am more shy pubescent than icy sophisticate. He’s messing with the cash register and gathering up his things and every move he makes telegraphs that he’s infected with precisely the same prom-night jitters I’ve got. Bizarre. Here we are, full-grown adults (how old is he, anyway? Twenty-seven? Thirty-seven? I have no idea), and we’re bumping into things and forming incomplete sentences at the prospect of going out for tacos.
    Then the phone rings. He gives it a blank stare. It continues its soft electronic bleating twice before he says, “Let’s let the answering machine get it,” and reaches for his coat. On the fourth ring the machine picks up and something deep in the pit of my stomach knows who it’ll be.
    â€œHi, Clay? You there? Pick up, okay? It’s Monica.” Long, poisonous pause. Clay hovers near the phone but does not touch it. “I need to talk to you.” There’s a quick sniffle. “Clay, please. I really need to talk.”
    Clay snaps the phone up. “Hi,” he says softly. “What’s up?” I walk away from him, feeling strangely numb. Seconds ago, I was struggling against the heat in my blood just looking at him, and now there’s ice water in my veins. I try the door, but it’s locked. I lean my forehead against the glass and will myself not to listen, but his words float across the small shop to my ears. “I know…it’s not easy for me—don’t say it’s…I just mean I’ve had my rough days, too, you know? Okay…no, I was just closing up.”
    After he puts the phone down he stands there a couple of seconds; I stay perfectly still, waiting for a cue, wishingthe door was unlocked so I could just slip outside and let the air clear my head.
    â€œThat was Monica,” he says, and his voice seems very far away. “My, um, wife. Except she’s not really—we’re not really…anyway, she’s having a rough day. It happens.”
    â€œOf course,” I whisper, still not turning around.
    â€œWhat?”
    I turn and face him. “Yes. Okay.”
    â€œClaudia…” He takes a couple of steps in my direction, but I stop him with my voice.
    â€œObviously, you’re busy—”
    â€œI wanted to see you. I wanted to explain—”
    I laugh, but it’s not a pleasant sound. “I don’t think there’s anything to explain.”
    â€œThe situation’s complicated, okay? I’m not trying to lie to anyone.”
    â€œMarried is married,” I say. “Divorced is divorced.” Finally, my voice has all the icy conviction I’d dreamed it might. Where’s this moral fervor coming from? How many times have I slept with married men—guys I didn’t even care about? “I think this whole thing is just—” the word is slow in coming, because it’s not one I ever use “—wrong.”
    I try the door again, ruining my little speech with a futile shove. “Can you please unlock this?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œNo?”
    â€œI want to explain to you where I’m coming from.”
    I lean my forehead against the glass, suddenly tired, and say, “Please. Just unlock it, okay?”
    He crosses the room and I give him plenty of space. Proximity is dangerous right now. Already I can feel the sick emptiness brought on by the phone call giving