Now she hits the lights, slips out the door, and holds out of her hand for my key.
“Laurel wasn’t a terrible match,” I murmur, as I dig the keys out of my pocket.
“For you, she was. Aside from the facts that she was clearly into someone else and she wanted kids, she’s territorial. The only way you could possibly live a mutually happy life with a territorial woman is if you lived alone on a desert island with no hope of rescue.”
That makes me laugh. I can’t really argue with that.
Virginia smiles faintly, using my key to lock up, pulling the handle to doubl
e-check, then handing me the key.
“You don’t think I’d come to Jesus for the right woman?” I tease.
Shaking her head firmly, Virginia says, “People don’t change. Not like that, anyway. They obviously change over time and as life happens to them, but they don’t experience personality transplants because they fall in love—and if they do, when the limerence wears off, they’ll get tired of selling themselves out and revert to their old ways. Sometimes people shift in subtle ways to accommodate one another, to grow together instead of apart, but not the way you’re talking about—not permanently, anyway. People need to already be compatible, not change to fit one another. That’s not a recipe for lasting happiness. No woman will ever change you, and it would be a shame if one tried. You’re great; you just don’t go out with women who match your personality.”
“Sometimes I do.”
“No,” she says decisively. “Not once. Not here, anyway.”
“Mia would have been a pretty good fit.”
“She’s married. I’ve never met her myself, so I don’t know if you’re right, but if you are, surely I don’t have to explain why her emotional unavailability is the only reason you even looked twice at her. You’re drawn to women who disappoint you—the only exception is women you can’t have. You like Mia because she loves your high-maintenance cousin. In your eyes, she has probably already proven by being happy with him you could depend on her, that she’s a safer pick than most women, but it probably isn’t true. Mateo might be difficult, but you’re completely different people. I’m sure he has his issues, but they’re not the same as yours. Mia and Mateo have kids, don’t they? So, clearly she wanted kids, and you don’t. Would you have compromised to make her happy? If so, would you have resented her for it and felt trapped later on? Is Mateo a flirt? If not, she might be territorial. Could she have handled going out to dinner and having you shamelessly flirt with the waitress? Even if she gritted her teeth and sat there through it, would it slowly erode her feelings for you and breed resentment? There are all kinds of ways she probably doesn’t fit you that you gloss over because you can, because she can be an untouchable idea in your head, but even if I’m off and she is a paragon of perfection designed specifically to suit you, that’s not what you look for. If Mia is perfect for you and you had met her when she was single, you would have walked right past her. You look for reassurance that your viewpoint about relationships is accurate, not someone who can prove you wrong.”
I’m not sure if all of that seems really insightful because I’m drunk, or because it is. “You have an awful lot of information about me. Do you have a ‘Rafe Morelli’ dossier tucked away in your apartment somewhere?”
Smiling faintly, she taps her temple. “I keep it all up here, whether I want to or not.”
“I like to observe people, too,” I tell her.
“I know,” she says indulgently.
“Of course you do,” I murmur. “Seems like you know more about me than I know about myself.”
“Probably. People can never see themselves as clearly as they think. I see you, though. That’s why I will not fuck you tonight and make everything weird forever, so don’t even try it. I’m wise to your tricks.”
I shoot her a harmless smile. “Oh, come on. Surely a hand job wouldn’t make things weird?”
Smothering her laughter, she unlocks her car and opens the driver seat. “Get your drunken ass in the car.”
I open her passenger door and drop into the seat, yanking the door shut. “Do you like bookstores?” I ask her.
She hits the locks, then pushes her key into the ignition. “I love bookstores. Do you?”
“I liked going to them with Laurel. As you mentioned, bookstore dates are a little too serious for me.”
I say it like I’m joking, but now that she’s called me on it, I can’t deny it. I can invite a woman to a club for drinks, or my restaurant for dinner, and it doesn’t have to mean anything. But taking a girl out during daytime hours to a bookstore? They’d start getting ideas about seriousness. That’s a damned shame. I don’t think Sin will let Laurel go to the bookstore alone with me until the baby gets here, and then there’s a kid tagging along. Not the same.
I want someone to go to bookstores with, but not someone who’s going to be a pain in the ass and start wanting things I won’t want to give.
Maybe I just want a friend.
Huh. I haven’t tried being friends with a woman since… Nope, I can’t remember. Grade school, probably.
“Where do you fall on the ‘can men and women be friends’ theory?” I ask her.
“Depends. Personally, I have had zero lasting male friendships, but I’m sure they’re possible between the right people.” Glancing over at me, she asks, “You?”
I would invariably screw it up by wanting to fuck her. Laurel is trying like hell to be my friend now, but I have to keep her at a distance. I still think about fucking her most Sundays, especially when she wears that tiny ass bikini by the pool. Only reason it hasn’t happened is because of Sin. Obviously it never will as long as Sin is around, but a single female friend wouldn’t have Sin to fend me off.