I put my book in my bag--do you know, I was so glad to see him that I totally forgot to hide the cover of the trashy novel?--and rearranged Kate in the sling.
At least I tried, I thought.
And I was glad.
I hadn't got what I wanted, but at least I'd taken responsibility for my life. I'd tried to fix something, I'd tried to make something happen.
I hadn't behaved like a passive victim, just letting life happen to me.
I had taken control.
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It hadn't worked, but so what.
The important thing was to try.
And the next time I met a nice man I wouldn't go all slushy and school- girlie on him, thinking of him as a boyfriend and suspecting every other woman of coveting him.
I had just organized myself to go when he jauntily came around the corner with a tray with coffee and pastries on it.
The bastard!
I'd just been all grown up and mature and wise for absolutely bloody nothing. I was feeling so good about myself, feeling saddened but enriched by the mistakes I had made. Then he had to come back and destroy it totally on me.
There went my rosy, introspective, pensive glow.
The selfish bastard!
I had a good mind to tell him to get lost and leave me alone. I had just come to terms, not even five minutes before, with losing him, so now what was I expected to do with him?
Enjoy his company?
Are you out of your mind?
"Sorry I was so long," he was saying. "The cashier had a fit and...hey!...where are you going?!"
He looked really surprised.
And then he looked upset.
"Sorry," I mumbled, feeling mortified.
If he ever had reason to think that I was hysterical and neurotic before now, this could only convince him that I was a complete tantrum-throwing little bitch.
"Why are you going?" he asked, sounding both angry and hurt. "I'm sorry I took so long. But I thought you'd wait."
"I thought you'd gone," I muttered.
"But why?" he asked in total exasperation. "Why would I leave?"
"I don't know," I said, feeling queasy with embarrassment.
Oh, you've messed it up really well this time, I told myself.
"Look!" he said, and he banged his tray down on the table and sent coffee spattering everywhere.
I jumped with fright.
"Sit down," he said angrily. He put his hands on my shoulders and pushed me back down into my chair in no uncertain terms.
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"Jesus!" I thought in shock. "Take it easy."
"Oh sorry, Kate," he interjected apologetically. Her little face must have registered surprise at this abrupt change in altitude.
"Now!" he said, back in angry mode again. "What the hell is going on?"
"What do you mean?" I asked in a little voice.
He was obviously trying to keep a lot of anger in check and it was frightening.
"Why are you treating me like this?" he demanded angrily, his face very close to mine.
I couldn't believe that this was happening.
Where had nice pleasant understanding Adam gone?
Who was this furious man in his place?
"Like what?" I asked, mesmerized. I was scared of him, but like a rabbit caught in the headlights of an oncoming car, I couldn't tear myself away from the angry blue of his eyes.
"Like I'm some kind of low-life."
"I'm not," I protested in surprise.
I wasn't, was I?
"Yes, you bloody well are," he barked at me, his fingers digging into my shoulders. "You have, practically from the first time we met.
"I met you, I really liked you, I wanted to see you, what's wrong with that?" he said furiously.
"Nothing," I whispered.
"So why do you behave as if I'm some kind of Casanova bastard type, why did you think I was messing with your little sister, why did you think I'd walk away and leave you sitting here, just tell me, why?"
People from other tables were starting to glance interestedly at us, but Adam didn't notice and I didn't really think it would be terribly sensible to point this out, at least not while he was in his present mood.
"Don't you see how insulting it is?" he flung at me.
"No," I said, almost afraid to look at him.
"Well, it is!"
I didn't know what to say. I just sat there looking at him, his blue eyes boring into mine.
I suddenly became aware of just how close I was to him.
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Our faces were inches apart.
I could see the individual hairs of his stubble, the lightly tanned skin stretched tightly over his beautiful cheekbones, the evenness of his white teeth, the sexiness of his mouth...
He suddenly went very still.
All the anger and violence seemed to lift from him.
We sat there like statues, his hands on my shoulders. We stared at each other.
I was so aware of him, his strength, his vulnerability. There was tension between us, vibrating slightly in the stillness.
Then he pulled away from me. Exhausted and utterly, utterly weary, he sat with his arms hanging limply by his side.
"Adam," I ventured tentatively.
He didn't even look up at me.
He sat there with his head bent.
Giving me a view of his beautiful dark hair.
"Adam," I said again, and gingerly touched his arm.
He stiffened slightly but he didn't pull away.
"It's not you, it's me," I said awkwardly.
There was a pause.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
Well, at least I thought that's what he'd said. It was kind of hard to hear him because his voice was all muffled because he was practically resting his head on his chest and talking into his sweater.
"It's my problem," I said. I found it very hard to say.
He said something else.
"Er, sorry Adam, but I didn't quite catch that," I told him apologetically.
He lifted his head and looked up at me.
He looked bad-tempered but beautiful.
"I said, what's your problem?" he repeated, rather nastily.
Another thrill of fear ran through me.
I had to make this all right.
But it was very hard to talk to him when he was being so intimidating.
"It's because I'm insecure and suspicious," I said.
He said nothing, just sat there looking moodily at me.