Pause (Larsen Bros)

I slip off my flats at the door and feel my way carefully forward. The night is so still I can hear the soft hum of music coming from one of our neighbors upstairs. Something bluesy. From the window comes the faint glow of streetlights and there’s the shadow of a tree limb shifting gently on the wall. Truth is, I could have been a super spy. A secret agent or something. My careful quiet progress into the condo is going so damn well. My hand is extended, reaching for the back of the couch, which absolutely has to be there. Or at least very close. Only my hand is too high and I find it care of my bare foot slamming into the couch foot with much damn oomph.

“Fuck,” I gasp.

Pain shoots up my leg and holy hell. This hurts. One of the overhead lights turns on and there is Leif, leaning against the wall in the opening of the hallway. He does not look amused. Given I’m the one who almost just broke a toe, I have no idea what he’s got to be grumpy about.

I hop around to the other side of the couch and sit down. Oh my poor, innocent pinkie toe. I feel so bad for me. “Shit, shit, shit. Did I wake you?”

“No,” he says, crossing his arms. “I couldn’t sleep.”

My stomach drops. “Did you have a nightmare?”

“I was waiting up for you.”

“Oh.”

With a sigh, he heads for the fridge, making up an impromptu ice pack with a kitchen towel and a bundle of the cold stuff for me. The sound of the ice hitting the countertop is startlingly loud in the silence. Then he kneels at my feet, frowning at my injury. Carefully, the ice pack is held against my wounded toe. He’s in his sleep pants again. No tee. Far too much skin for my peace of mind. There’s no call for him to be flaunting his nipples and pecs in the privacy of his own home. Talk about disgusting.

“Why didn’t you just turn on a light when you came in?” he asks.

“I was trying not to disturb you. Did you have a nice day with your friend?” I ask, playing it cool. All puns intended.

“We had lunch,” he says.

“Mm.”

Therein follows a couple of awkward moments wherein he stares at my foot and I stare at anything that isn’t him. Or at least try to. My fascination with the man is hard to figure. Rational thought dictates that I should be burnt out from my divorce and in need/want of time and space. And yet the one thing I feel like I might actually need/want is him. Which is terrifying. The timing of this crush is just awful in all the ways. But grown-ass women can control their emotions and behavior. At least I hope I can.

“Why were you waiting up for me?” I ask at last.

“Things felt off this morning.” His voice is low and gravelly. “Thought we could talk about it.”

“What?” I scoff. “No.”

His brow goes up. “Is that you denying things were weird, or refusing to discuss them with me?”

“Both.” It’s out of my mouth before I can stop it. Dammit.

“Anna.” He shakes his head. “I thought we were past this.”

“Past what?”

“You running away when things get tough,” he says, resting back on his haunches. “Trust and understanding, remember?”

I have nothing.

“Bestie, buddy, roommate . . .”

At this, I flinch. I can’t help it. The R word is killing me. I’m the worst friend ever.

“Okay,” he says. As if something’s been decided. “Thing is, I didn’t know Roshuane was stopping by and I—”

“You’re allowed to have people over whenever you want. It’s none of my business.”

“Let me finish,” he says, taking a deep breath. “We used to be involved, but things are different now. My interests currently lie elsewhere. So we went and had a nice lunch and we’re probably going to catch up in a couple of weeks’ time for a drink or something. That’s it.”

And I sit there frozen. “That’s your private business. You didn’t need to tell me all that.”

“Do you feel better for me having told you all that?”

“Yes,” I admit.

“There you go then.” With another sigh, he sets the ice pack aside and joins me on the sofa. “I think you need to do the thing we talked about you doing a while back.”

I draw my brows together. “What? What thing?”

“You know.”

“No, I don’t know.”

Yet another sigh. Never has a man been more put upon. Just ask him. “How’s your toe?”

“Sore.”

“You think it might be broken? Want me to take you to a medical center to get it checked?”

I think it over, carefully moving the appendage. “No. It’s probably just a sprain or something. I don’t think there’s much they can do about toes. I’ll see how it is tomorrow.”