I tense. She said that in a silly way, but there was bite in each word. I fight not to let my anger stir since it is appropriate that her first words to me should be critical. I owe her that.

I take a moment to regroup. I can’t tell what direction this is going to go. I’m getting a dose of the playacting. Nonsensical drivel. But I don’t know what’s underneath the façade.

Anger?

Hurt?

This could take off in any direction.

I opt for nonsensical as well. “I need to take a page from the rabbits, Chrissie. The male is discreet, he is modestly quick and delightfully charming in the afterglow. Somehow it makes him all the more tolerable to the female.”

Oh fuck, what made me say that?

She shakes her head in a dramatic and cutesy sort of way. “Don’t do that, Alan. We would all be living in a boring world if you became discreet, modestly quick and charming in the afterglow all on the same day.”

Direct hit.

“I love you, Chrissie. How much longer are you going to make me wait for you this time? Five years? Ten? Let me know so I can pray, fast and mentally prepare.”

Her expression doesn’t change. Not even a hint of reaction.

“I wasn’t aware that you were waiting,” she says smoothly. “A phone call might have been useful to get the message to me. Hell, I would have even settled for a text.”

Aggravated, I run a hand through my hair. How like her to drop the mistakes we both own solely on me. “Then you are the only one unaware on seven continents, love.”

Her brows lift. “Really? How irritating that must be for the women in your life. No wonder you’ve run through so many so quickly this year. You irritate them.”

Fine. You’ve had your pound of flesh. Enough.

“Not quickly, Chrissie. While I’m there I give it my all.”

There. Hopefully, she’ll be ready to back off on this charade. I hate the playacting. She knows it. It’s not a good sign that she’s leading with it.

“You’re right. Let me rephrase. You are never quick in the endeavor. There are times you do exceed your exaggerated public persona, Alan. You exceed in the endeavor. Maybe I should take a poll on this. No, it would be an exhausting effort. How many women have you gone through this time? Fifty? A hundred? No, more like fifty. You’re getting older and you’ve only had thirteen months to work with.”

She’s learned to fight in a year. And she’s not just angry, she’s hurt. Deeply hurt. Message received, Chrissie.

“Do you want to talk about the women I’ve had in my life or do you want to talk about us? I’ll talk about both, whichever you care for. I never do bullshit with you, Chrissie. So remind yourself of that before you decide which way you want to take us in this and how far into detail. Why don’t we skip the first topic since not a single woman was of any significance since none of them were you?”

She moves away from the patio table until she is standing.

Her eyes flash.

“I won’t tolerate the women, Alan. If you can’t give me that, go home. Don’t follow me into the house. Spare us both and leave. If you step through that door it’s a promise to me. A promise I expect you to keep. Then we can take some time to figure out what we want to do about you and me.”

She walks away, through the patio door, and closes it behind her.

I sink onto the foot of a chaise lounge and stare. What the fuck happened here? Did I hear her correctly? She moved through the first round with the sureness of a military mastermind. Chrissie defined the ground rules of having a relationship with her—this time—in a series of five unleashed blows masquerading as a conversation.

Christ, I don’t understand any of this. Does she mean what I think she means? That she has already decided she wants to try to give us a go again.

Definitely not what I expected today. Not her calmness. Not her emotional poise. And not how quickly she moved us to the reason I’m here: us.

I take several measured breaths and realize I can’t sit out here all afternoon trying to figure this out. If I delay much longer Chrissie might take that as me debating with myself over whether to follow her.

I go into the house.

I find her alone in the kitchen, tidying the mess on the counter left by the children. They’ve eaten their pizza. The house is quiet. It sounds like it’s empty.

I settle myself on a stool across the island from her. “If you don’t stop force-feeding me shit, Chrissie, you’ll suffocate me before I get a chance to even ask you to dinner.”

She looks over her shoulder at me. She laughs.

“It’s the art of tough love, Alan, and you need it. I don’t need dinner. And monogamy isn’t the worst promise in the world to keep.”

I don’t like being lectured.

“I have always been faithful to you when we were together, Chrissie, and you know it.”

She nods. “I know you were, Alan. But our circumstance is more complicated. You’ve changed and not in all ways better. I can’t let you back into my life, not for a day if this isn’t something you’re going to do the way I need you to. My children come first. Don’t ever forget that.”

I sit back, staring at her.

“Would you like to explain what’s going on, Chrissie? I came here hoping you wouldn’t throw me out the front door. I don’t mind if you’re inclined to skip the preliminaries, we both know what I want and why I’m here, but I wish you’d let me know what it is you want so I can reschedule my calendar. What is it you want, Chrissie?”

Chrissie shuts off the water, turns from the sink, and leans back against the counter. “I’m not throwing you out the front door, but we’re a long way from anything else. This time it has to be my way, not yours.”

“Your way, love? What makes you think that’s a change?”

She smiles, contrite. “I concede your point. I’m sorry. I can see I’m confusing you. You came here expecting a fight and you thought I was going to hate you. I don’t want to fight and I don’t hate you. But that won’t make this any easier for either of us. I can’t be your friend. I’m pretty sure we’ll blur that line. And I won’t be your lover. There are a few issues we need to work through. It’s part of me being sure this time, sure about you, sure about us. Sure about the direction I take my life.”

Sure?

Is she fucking serious?

“I’ve loved you every day since the moment I first saw you. What more do you need from a man to be sure?”

She stares at me, blinks twice, and then smiles, one of her comical smiles. “May it be written on every obelisk and pylon. The tabloids just didn’t do it for me. Too many photos.”

Again, dramatic and exaggerated. Still playacting in round two; not a good sign.

I shake my head. “Tomorrow I’ll purchase all the obelisks and pylons in America. Where do I find them?”

I let out a ragged breath.

I sense we both need a rest in this.

“Your house is quiet, Chrissie. What have you done with your kids?”

Those blues begin to sparkle. “I locked them in the cellar.”

I roll my eyes. “I suppose I should be grateful that you didn’t lock me in the cellar, love. Not being an optimist I’m not dismissing the worry yet.”

She smiles again. The change of subject seems to ease some of her tension.

“In case you weren’t aware, Alan, you were on the patio over an hour. You have a horrible concept of time. Grace took Krystal and the boys home with her. Kaley is staying at a friend’s. You can spend the night if you want to. You look like hell. A night of healthy living couldn’t hurt you.”

I don’t take those words as an invitation to share her bed tonight even though she got rid of the kids. I’m more inclined to believe she is expecting something to happen and doesn’t want the kids to witness it.

“It’s a good thing I look like hell. I’m dead tired. I only reached LA a few hours ago. Us alone in a house—you would never let me sleep unless I looked like hell, Chrissie.”