His arms squeeze just a bit tighter. “It sucked, but not because it was my girlfriend cheating on me. Because it was your boyfriend cheating on you.”
I lean back slightly so I can look up at him. “Doug was barely my boyfriend. We’d been together for a few months. And quite honestly, given the guy I met tonight, I think I probably dodged a bullet.”
“Still shouldn’t have happened,” he says quietly.
“No. Not to either of us.”
He shrugs, and I step back. “You and Erika are still friends. You were going to have her watch our dog, who’s fine, by the way. How can you, knowing that? Having that memory?”
Mark flinches. “Do we have to do girl-talk?”
I punch his shoulder. “Yes.”
“Fine. Can we do it in the car, where it’s warm?”
Oh. Right. My anger at Erika and Doug had warmed me up for a while, but it’s still freaking cold outside.
I let him hoist me into the car, and the second he comes around to the driver’s side and starts the engine, I turn the heat on full blast and turn to face him. “Speak.”
“About?”
“Don’t make me punch you again.”
Mark puts the truck in reverse, and only when we’re on the main road does he answer me. “I was mad at Erika for a while, but anger fades more quickly than pain, and after a few weeks I realized…there was no pain.”
I frown. “How is that possible? You were together for years. You asked her to move in with you.”
“Eh. More like I gave her a key to keep her from getting pissy when I worked later than expected and she couldn’t get into the house.”
“She could have borrowed my key. I live, like, ten steps away.”
He cuts me a glance. “How well do you think that would have gone over?”
“What do you mean? Erika and I got along.”
“Only because you make everyone get along with you, whether they want to or not.”
I narrow my eyes and read between the lines. “Are you saying she didn’t like me?”
“I’m sure she liked you fine,” he says, nudging down the heat a bit. “She just didn’t like our relationship. Or the fact that you live in my backyard. And that you had a key when she didn’t.”
“Oh.” I turn and look out the window. “I guess I can get that.”
I fall quiet as I think everything over, and Mark surprises me by turning on the radio. Surprises me even more when it’s Christmas music.
I turn toward him and whisper, “I knew you were a closet fan.”
“Shut up.”
I smile and turn back to the window as “O Holy Night” echoes through the truck’s cab. It’s a pretty version—one I don’t recognize that’s vaguely jazzy.
As we pull up to Mark’s garage, another thought pops into my head. “What were you doing at the bar in the first place? I thought you had to work.”
“I did work. I wrapped up early.”
“Been doing that a lot lately. Going in late, wrapping up early.”
“So?” His voice is irritated as he pulls into the garage and punches the button to close the garage door against the winter weather.