“Oh.” I chew on the inside of my lip as I pick up my bag. “Well, maybe we can go out for dinner later this week…”
“But not today,” he says, and I nod, feeling awkward but not knowing what else to do. There’s no way I’m introducing George’s killer to my parents.
It’s bad enough I just offered to go out to dinner with him.
“Okay, then. I’ll see you when you get back,” he says, and I slip away before he can suggest anything else—like matching tattoos or a beach wedding.
This is total madness, and the craziest part is that it’s starting to seem normal.
I’m getting used to having Peter in my life.
* * *
At lunch, I inform my parents that I decided not to sell the house. I already told them two weeks ago that the lawyers’ offer fell through, so they’re not particularly surprised to hear about my decision. In fact, they’re quite pleased, given that the house is only a twenty-minute drive from them while my new apartment would’ve been at least forty-five minutes away.
“It’s a lovely house,” Dad says, pouring himself a little platter of soy sauce. “I think the whole apartment thing was an overreaction. You’re young, but years go by fast, and at some point soon, you might want to think about starting a family. You know, get out there and meet a man—”
“Oh, stop it, Chuck,” Mom snaps at him. “Sara has plenty of time.” Turning toward me, she says in a softer voice, “You take as long as you need, darling. Don’t let your dad push you into anything. We are glad you’re keeping the house, but that doesn’t mean we expect you to produce grandkids anytime soon.”
“Mom, please.” It’s all I can do not to roll my eyes like I’m still in high school. My parents are doing the good cop/bad cop thing with me, likely in the hopes of planting the “go out and meet a nice man” suggestion in my mind. “If I’m on the verge of producing grandkids, I promise you and Dad will be the first to know.”
Mom gives Dad a beatific smile. “See? She’ll go out there when she’s ready.”
“Right.” I busy myself with prying apart my wooden chopsticks. “When I’m ready.” Which, given what’s happening in my life, might be never. Or at least not until Peter gets bored with me—something that looks increasingly unlikely to happen soon. If anything, I think he’s even more fixated on me now, his gray eyes watching me with a peculiar light that sends warm shivers down my spine.
Before I can analyze why that is, the waiter brings out our sushi boat, and my parents ooh and aah over the artfully arranged fish, sparing me from more of their not-so-subtle machinations. I wish I could tell them the truth, but there’s no way I can explain Peter without terrifying them out of their minds.
I’m still not sure how I’m dealing with the whole thing myself.
* * *
By the end of the week, my period is over and I’m back in the swing of things, with two on-call shifts early in the week and a three-hour stretch at the clinic on Wednesday on top of my usual office hours. I’m working so much I’m barely home, but Peter doesn’t object, though I can sense he’s less than pleased with the situation. Despite my period, we’ve had sex over the last few days—he wasn’t lying about his lack of squeamishness—and each time, he’s been unusually hungry, his touch unrestrained and borderline rough.
It’s as if he’s afraid of somehow losing me, as if he hears the ticking of some clock.
On Friday, I spend most of the day in my office, seeing patients, but just as I’m about to head home, I get an urgent message that one of my patients has gone into labor. Suppressing a weary sigh, I hurry to the locker room to scrub up and run into Marsha, who’s coming off her shift.
“Hey,” she says with a sympathetic grimace. “Just getting started?”
“Looks like it,” I say, stuffing my clothes into the locker. “Are you girls going out tonight?”
“Nah. Andy can’t make it, and Tonya is busy with that cute bartender. Remember him?”
I pull my hair into a ponytail. “The one from the club we went to?” At Marsha’s confirming nod, I ask, “Yeah, why? Did they hook up?”
“You guessed it.” Marsha grins. “Anyways, I see you’re in a rush, so I’ll let you go. Call me if you want to do anything this weekend. Andy is having a barbecue tomorrow night, and I’m sure she’d love for you to come.”
“Thank you. I’ll call you if I can make it,” I say and hurry out of the locker room. I know I won’t be calling her, and this time, it’s not because I’m afraid for my friends.