New York Nights: Shaken and Stirred. Kathleen O'Reilly

      She heard the long sigh, which meant she was getting closer. “It’s nothing.”

      “Tell me exactly what nothing is.”

      “Fine. It’s Denny.”

      Denny. Ex-live-in-boyfriend Denny. No big deal.

      “His girlfriend’s pregnant. They’re going to get married.”

      And now ex-live-in-boyfriend Denny was going to be Daddy Denny. No problem that he hadn’t wanted a ball and chain or kids four years ago. But now? Oh, now his sperm was flying all over the planet, happily procreating at will.

      “That’s great,” Tessa said, knowing that he expected her to say something—or else fall apart.

      “You’re taking this well.”

      “Of course I’m taking this well. It was four years ago, Robert. Time heals all wounds, and my wounds are closed, scars are faded. I’m getting on with my life. Did Mom tell you that I moved today? It’s a great place. Two-bedroom. Doorman. Nice location on the Upper East Side. I haven’t lived here before, never really thought I was upper east side material, but I think I’m going to like it.” She was rambling now, but Robert wouldn’t know any better.

      “Okay, then. We were worried.”

      “About me? Pshaw. Stop worrying,” she said and hung up before her face splintered into a million pieces.

      For the last four years she had kept her focus on one thing only—supporting herself. She didn’t have time for men or relationships, it wasn’t in her plan. And off in Florida—happy, carefree Florida—there was Denny, who was having tons of sex with women, happily supporting himself and now a new wife and kid.

      It sucked.

      She waved happily to Herb as she boarded the elevator and was tempted to go out alone somewhere, anywhere, to have a good time, to see what she’d been missing, but she was tired, she wanted to lie down and she needed to climb into her bed and possibly never come out again.

      At the apartment, Gabe was nursing a beer and watching the Yankees win. The all-American singleton life. A man who didn’t have to worry about accounting tests or failed relationships and in general treated life as if it were a soufflé to be whipped into shape.

      “How was class?”

      “Great,” she answered and trotted to her room where she closed the door and collapsed.

      She wasn’t going to cry, because crying was for people who were lost or homeless or lived alone. When you had roommates, you learned to suffer in silence, listening to the awful pounding of your heart, knowing the tears hovered close to the surface but you had to master them and control them. She took out her accounting book, but the tears started to spill onto the pages, and a water-damaged textbook certainly wasn’t going to help her grade.

      She hated Denny Ericcson with a passion. Hated him for letting her think that her life was taken care of for forever and then ripping the rug right out from under her a mere three years after the fact. She peeled away the waistband of her jeans and saw the permanent proof of her idiocy: a tattoo on her butt. D-E-N-N-Y inked in cute red letters with a curlicue at the end.

      Argh.

      Instead of celebrating their third year together, she’d ended up starting all over. It was a time when most women had their lives all mapped out. Tessa wiped her face. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of tears. Not anymore. Of course, no way was she going to face her roommate, her cheeks warm and no doubt stained rosy-red.

      She crept along the soft carpet of the hallway, soundlessly heading for the safety of the bathroom. Tessa looked up, met Gabe’s eyes and then made a clean run for the lavatory, slamming the door behind her.

       3

      GABE’S FIRST INSTINCT was to hammer on the door and ask what was wrong. Tessa wasn’t a crier, wasn’t the emotional whirlpool that the other females at the bar were. Time after time he saw her move from place to place, moving from day job to job or whatever life threw at her, and she took it all in stride. There was only one other person he knew who was so emotionally stable. Him. No, Tessa was solid rock all the way. Which was why he’d been so shocked to see her upset.

      However, Tessa had been very clear about things. The first being the ground rules. She wanted her space, and he’d been fine with that, although that was before she’d turned on the waterworks, and tears always got him hinky.

      He crumpled the beer can in his hand, then tossed it in the trash across the room.

      Damn.

      Damn, damn, damn.

      He didn’t give a damn about the personal boundaries at the moment, so he went and knocked on the door. Loudly, so she wouldn’t pretend not to hear, which is what he knew she’d do.

      “Tess? I’m getting kinda bored out here. Let’s go out, get some drinks. You know, celebrate your first night here.”

      “Go away, Gabe. It’s that time of the month.”

      Aw, hell. When females freely admitted to PMS it meant serious danger ahead. He knocked again.

      “Leave me alone, Gabe.”

      “I know you have your rules, Tess, but at least talk to me.”

      “No.”

      Gabe fought the urge to pound on the door, but now wasn’t the time to be heavy-handed and go all caveman on her. He needed to use finesse and psychology. He was good at that, he was a bartender, a very good one. There was one easy way to get to Tess.

      “Can you open the door? It is mine, after all.”

      The door opened and Tessa flew out. He grabbed her arm before she could run.

      “Stop it.”

      She faced him down, every trace of a tear scrubbed away, her eyes sharp as daggers. All nice and neat and as tidy as she could get.

      “I won’t pry. I won’t ask what’s bothering you. However, I will treat you exactly like I’d treat any other friend who’s had a hard day. There’s a party upstairs. I’m a popular guy—sorry, you’ll have to get used to that, but we should go. You’ll get a chance to meet some of the people in the building, but watch out for Stevie Tagglioli—he’s a basket case and will hit on anything in a skirt.”

      Tessa pulled her arm free and stared at the wall. “I don’t feel like doing anything. I need to study.”

      So this was going to be tricky. She was playing the academic-scholar card. But there was one thing that trumped academics: guilt. “You’re going to be boring, aren’t you? I thought this would be fun. Somebody to eat with, hang out on the couch with, go shoot some pool—but, no, you’re a closet dweeb, aren’t you?”

      She lifted her tiny chin, her eyes starting to spark. “I’m not a dweeb, and you’ll be wise to remember that in the future.”

      “Prove it. Come on, it’ll be fun.”

      “It’s going to be hell.”

      “So we dip into the bowels of hell together? Besides, there’s this one girl in the building—Vanessa—and she’s been hitting on me, can’t get enough of me. You can be my cover date.”

      And voilà. There it was. Fire-breathing rage. This was the Tessa that he knew and loved.

      “You want me to keep some skank from hitting on you? This is the sole reason you’re inviting me?”

      “Does there have to be another one?”

      Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “This won’t work. Now we’re living together. If people in the building think we’re a couple, what happens if I want to date someone in the building? Do I have to sneak out on you? See what sort