"You haven't done anything wrong," I continued falteringly.
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He gave a grim little nod at that.
Of course, he might just have been readjusting his head's position on his neck.
But it was enough to encourage me to continue.
"I thought you'd left here because you didn't want to speak to me," I told him.
"I see," he said without any noticeable emotion.
I felt like giving him a little smack.
React, for God's sake!
Tell me I'm being ridiculous, tell me that you'd always want to see me.
He didn't.
Maybe he didn't appreciate being manipulated into complimenting me.
Fair enough.
Maybe it was time I stopped manipulating him.
Or anyone else, for that matter.
But sometimes it was as instinctive as breathing.
Not that I was proud of it or anything, mind.
I tried to explain to him.
"I thought that you wouldn't want to speak to me after I'd been so un- reasonable on the phone on Sunday night."
"You were unreasonable," he agreed.
"But I'm frightened," I said sadly.
"Of what?" he asked, not sounding quite as fierce.
"Of, of, of...everything really," I said. And to my horror my eyes filled up with tears.
I didn't do it on purpose, I swear I didn't.
I was as shocked by my unexpected ocular moistness as he was.
"Sorry," I sniffed. "I'm not doing this so that you'll be nice to me."
"Good," he said. "Because it won't work."
The heartless fucker, I thought briefly, but then banished the unworthy thought from my mind.
"I only respond to crying women if they're under the age of two," he continued, half smiling, as he touched Kate's face.
"Oh," I said. I made a valiant attempt at a laugh, even though I was still crying.
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"So what are you so frightened of that you have to be mean to me?" he asked. This time he almost sounded gentle.
"Oh, the usual," I said, trying to pull myself together.
"Like what?" he persisted.
"Caring for people and then losing them, making a fool of myself, being hurt, scaring people away, being too forward, being too aloof..." I rattled off. "Do you want me to go on? I could do this for hours."
"No, that's all right," he said. "But we're all scared of those things."
"Are we?" I asked, surprised.
"Of course," he assured me. "Why do you think you're so special? You haven't got a monopoly on feeling like that, you know. And anyway, how am I making you feel frightened?"
"Because I thought you were playing me off against Helen," I said.
"But I told you I wasn't," he said in exasperation. "And I told you that I could understand why you felt like that, even though I didn't like it."
"Anyway, why are you so touchy about it?" I asked him.
"Well, I just am," he said. He looked sad and thoughtful. I knew that he wasn't just thinking about me and Helen.
What had happened to him?
What kind of grief was he carrying?
I had to get to the bottom of this.
But first I had to sort out our current difficulties.
I plowed valiantly on.
"And after I spoke to you on Sunday night, I felt that I had seemed hys- terical and like I was overreacting and like I had scared you away and that you wouldn't call me anymore," I blurted out, and then watched him carefully from under my lashes to see how he reacted to this.
"Well..." he said slowly.
Oh, speed it up to God's sake, I thought frantically. My nerves can't stand it.
"I wasn't going to call you," he continued.
"Oh," I said.
So I had been right.
Ten for ten on my instincts.
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Minus several billion for my sense of well-being. I felt as if I'd been kicked in the stomach by a horse.
Actually that's not true, because I'd never been kicked in the stomach by a horse. Do you think that I'd be sitting here now talking to you if I'd been the lucky recipient of a kick in the stomach by a horse? The answer has got to be no.
But I felt the way I felt when I was about ten and I fell off a wall and landed belly-flop on my stomach on a lawn that had been baked hard by the summer sun and was as hard as concrete. There was that horrible feeling of shock and nausea as all the breath in my body was abruptly forced out.
That was the way I felt now.
"Not because I didn't want to call you," he continued, unaware of how much pain I was in. "But because I thought it would be best for you."
"How do you mean?" I squeaked, feeling infinitely better.
"Because you've been through too much lately. I didn't want to upset you in any way or add to your troubles."
The angel!
"You weren't upsetting me," I told him.
"But I obviously was," he said.
"But you weren't doing it on purpose," I protested.
"I know," he said. "Which is why I lost my temper earlier--sorry about that, by the way--but just being in contact with you seemed to cause you to be annoyed or upset or whatever."
Relief washed over me in waves.
"I'm sorry I was difficult," I told him. "But..."
And here I took a deep breath.
I was taking a bit of a risk.
Putting my feelings on the line.
"I'd rather see you than not see you," I finally managed to tell him.
"Really?" he said, sounding hopeful and excited and boyish.
"Yes."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure."
"Do you trust me?"
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"Oh, Adam," I said, half laughing, half crying. "I said I wanted to see you. No one mentioned anything about trust."
"Okay," he said, laughing also (no sign of any tears). "But will you trust me when I say that I want to see you and not Helen?"
"Yes," I said solemnly. "I will."
"And if the cashier has a fight with someone over his change and has a fit and runs off so that I have to wait hours to pay for my coffee, you won't think that I've made a break out the back way?"
"No," I agreed. "I won't."