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Pietro’s grip on Ororo was solicitous and insistent as he poked his key into the lock and let them inside.

“Get straight into bed. I’ll fix you something in a minute,” he grumbled without preamble.

“I want to watch TV,” she griped.

“Bed,” he demanded, kicking the door shut behind him and securing the dead bolts. He turned her carefully and pulled her against him, studying her with concern, mixed with a hint of irritation. “Why would you wait so late to eat something?”

“I didn’t know you were coming home so late,” she offered. “I like eating with you.”

“That’s no excuse. Damn it, don’t do that again!” He gave her a hard kiss on the mouth before drawing away from her. “We had Tang in the cupboard.”

“I know. I didn’t mix it fast enough,” she retorted, nodding to the lukewarm glass of water sitting on the counter with a clump of unstirred orange powder settled in the bottom, coloring the water itself a transparent peach. “I just got dizzy. I remember you asking me what I was cooking, right before everything went black.” She heard his last few words as though she were underwater, too. That much she remembered.

“I turned off the stove before we left. Otherwise we wouldn’t have had a house to come home to,” he shrugged. Ororo followed him into the kitchen, then gave a small cry as she discovered the stark red smears of blood on the counter that had dripped down the cupboard, staining her linoleum.

“Oh, Lord,” she cringed, covering her mouth.

“Go sit down, baby. I’ll clean it up. Don’t look at it. You’ll feel worse. Here, I’ll get some ice for this. Have your Tang.” He led her to the couch and squatted down to remove her sandals, the only pair of shoes he’d managed to grab on his way out the door before they left. Her toes were still chilled, and he rubbed them to warm them up.

“Thanks,” she whispered.

“Sure. Sit back.” He propped sofa cushions around her and levered one under her feet. She reclined and listened to the dim clink of ice cubes as he fixed her drink. She sipped it while he made her a sandwich out of one of the chicken breasts she’d broiled earlier, tucking it between two slices of wheat bread with some lettuce and ranch dressing. He cut it in half and helped himself to some after he set the plate on her lap.

“I missed Smallville. I didn’t Tivo it,” she complained.

“We’ll buy the season DVD when it comes out,” he promised. Pietro settled himself on the couch beside her, encouraging her to lie across his lap. He commandeered the remote and as usual, flipped through the channels too fast for her to give an opinion. He finally settled on Comedy Central, grinning as he realized it was a Chappelle Show rerun.

“This is the one where’s he’s Rick James!” he crowed.

“I’m Rick James, BITCH!” Ororo mimicked weakly from his lap, giggling. “Ow,” she moaned, touching her throbbing head. Her fingertips scraped against the Band-Aid. Mutely, she remembered: He gave me Daffy Duck?

They woke up the next morning in a tangle of limbs. Ororo’s backside was chilled from where he’d yanked away half of her covers and left her bare. She reached for some and burrowed further beneath the warmth of the comforter, and Pietro stirred, sighing and reaching for her before he even opened his eyes.

“Mmm. Hmmm. Cold,” he remarked, groping her butt under the covers.

“That’s your fault,” she pointed out.

“Is not.”

“You swiped my covers.”

“Me, me, me, it’s all about meeee…” he crooned back at her in a sing-song falsetto, even though his voice was still full of sleep. He cracked his eyes open at her. “What are you doing today?”

“I don’t know. Why?”

“I figured we’d go to Dad’s for breakfast.”

“What time?”

“I told him we’d meet him at eight-thirty.”

“Well, gee..’Tro, you could have told me at some point that this was your plan.”

“Plan? What plan? We’re just meeting Dad for breakfast. That’s hardly a ‘plan.’ It’s a meal. You don’t want to cook, do you?”

“No,” she admitted. ‘Tro’s appetite was a thing of legend. Any other morning of the week, he was content with protein shakes with a raw egg and a banana whirled around in the blender. She winced; she hated banana, and hated cleaning the blender when he was done. Men sucked at cleaning out the blender…

But on weekends, Ororo knew the score: Pietro ate like a lumberjack on Saturdays and Sundays. Only the most grease-smeared breakfast of hash browns, eggs over-easy, bacon, pancakes and fried ham would fit the bill. She didn’t know where he put it. Ororo only joined him in that kind of indulgence about once a month. Any more often than that, and she’d be looking at type one diabetes instead. She’d always hated watching her dad take his insulin shots at the dinner table.

And so she went to the gym. Even on nights when she was dog-tired from work, she hit the treadmill running, racking up about fifteen to twenty miles a week. Cardio was her thing; even Pietro didn’t lift more often than three times a week, which suited her fine. Physically they were a perfect fit. Her arm was always nestled snugly into the small of his waist when they spooned at night, her breath caressing the nape of his neck, breasts mashed against his back.

It wasn’t the breakfast itself that was the problem. It was the dishes.

There were only two of them in the house, but by the time ‘Tro was finished “helping her” fix breakfast, there was a towering, K-12 avalanche of frying pans, dirty glasses with fruit smoothie residue or orange juice pulp swimming in the bottoms, egg-studded forks, mixing bowls with coagulated pancake batter, and egg and ketchup speckled plates. Yuck. That, she could do without.

Then again, sometimes making breakfast for the two of them was the least of two evils.

Pietro loved to bicker with her from the moment that he hung up the handset from talking with his father. Eric Lensherr was a well-meaning enough man, but Ororo remembered reading somewhere about the proverbial road to Hell being paved with…well, you get the point. Her future father-in-law, as Ororo liked to think of him, liked everything a certain way. His way, or the highway. His house was furnished like a palace thanks to his first wife, Magda. Since her death, he’d been married and divorced three more times. Clever lawyers saw to it that his estate was protected for his children’s inheritance, reinforced by a wall of prenuptial agreements and codicils ensuring how the money would be spent after his death. His lawn and gardens were impeccably maintained. His shoes were Italian, cost as much as Ororo’s mortgage payment and always sported a high shine.

Eric surprised Ororo and Pietro both when he turned out to be exceedingly fond of her from their first meeting. She’d first met him for dinner after she and Pietro had been together for nearly six months.


~0~

“She’s a production artist,” Pietro explained.

“I design Web pages,” Ororo qualified.

“Lovely, well-spoken, intelligent,” Eric listed. “Who could ask for more.” Ororo shivered. It sounded more like a challenge than a statement, but she pushed aside her misgivings when he leaned forward and clasped her upper arms, kissing her cheek. Pietro looked at her funny, making her smile falter a bit when she noticed the odd light in his eyes.

~0~

Pietro cuddled her and slowly began his morning ritual of “accidentally” tickling and tweaking her in naughty places. “Uh-oh, look at that, you want me.”

“Tro, let’s take a shower!”

“Can’t. Your nipples are standing up at attention. You want me,” he announced, stroking his chin. He wrestled her onto her back, nuzzling her nipple through the thin cotton camisole.

“TRO! Knock it off! Let’s get ready!”

“We’ll get ready in a minute,” he cajoled. “Let’s get naked first. You would’ve had to take this off eventually, anyway!” He urged her top of over her belly, but her arms crossed over her breasts, blocking him from sliding it all the way up.

“You always do this,” she hissed. “You rush me out of a good sleep, then want a roll in the hay, then rush me again through getting ready. I need to figure out what to wear.”

“I’ll help you pick it out. Right now, just wear me.

“Uh-uh. Not gonna happen.”

“Oh, it’ll happen…whoops, there goes the shirt, up, up…nooooooooo. C’mon, ‘Roooo…” he whined. She clamped her arms against her torso, eyeing him with clear warning.

“You will call your dad. You will tell him we’re running late,” she ordered.

“We won’t be late,” he coaxed, giving her Eskimo kisses with his nose.

“Tro…”

“I promise. Pretty please, with sugar on top. I’ll be a good boy. Pinky swear.”

“Baloney.”

“I’ll slip you some salami instead!”

“TRO!”

She couldn’t resist him, and eventually stopped trying. Every inch of her body woke up the more he rocked his pelvis against hers. Her hands skimmed their way up his chest, tracing the shape of his muscles and feathering over his sleep-warmed skin. Her protests died a whimpering death on her lips as she gave into his kiss. They were both naked within seconds, but instead of stretching himself over her, Pietro gripped her legs and flipped her over like a pancake so she laid on her belly.

“Pietro…noooooo! You know I like it when we-“

“I know how you like it,” he boasted, and his tongue ran a wicked path down her back. She trembled and bit back a cry.

“Oh…’Tro. Please.”

“Oh, I will.” The covers were thrown aside, and the rapidly cooling sheets were twisted in her fists as he took her. She was slick for him, and her cries swelled and grew wild, filling the room. His hands gripped her hips as he rode her. She craved the sight of his face as he reached his pleasure. She settled instead for his hot breath against the crown of her cheek as he nipped the crest of her ear. He closed in on her at first, stroking every inch of her that he could reach, but eventually he reared back, pulling her back against him and rocking the mattress with his thrusts, giving her knees sheet-burn. She felt her womb clench with exquisite pleasure and a quivery little thrill, she was so close…she could almost feel herself…falling…over the…edg-

“Holy!” His body jerked and rippled sinuously as he came. He throbbed within her, and she writhed beneath the aftershocks, wanting to steal some of his climax for herself, and she nearly succeeded. Nearly. Her body was still tingling as he fell against her, knocking them both into a limp sprawl.

“Shower,” Ororo murmured weakly.

“I’ll go warm it up.” He kissed her shoulder one last time before getting up, then lightly smacked her butt, making her flinch.

“Eergh.” She got up, stretched, then rummaged around for dry towels in the linen closet, not caring about her nudity as she made her way down the hall. Pietro was already in the shower, and she pondered the offerings on her side of the closet briefly before choosing her khaki boot-cut jeans and a brown flutter-sleeve blouse of burnout velvet with a satin ribbon that tied beneath her breasts. She fished out her black ankle boots and dug in her underwear drawer for her little woven beanie cap, not wanting to go through their usual ritual of Pietro micromanaging her choices, when he couldn’t even make up his mind about his own clothes half the time.

She eventually joined him in the shower and ducked out of the way (again) as he scrubbed his hair, flicking shampoo foam every which way. He made room for her in the spray, however, and began soaping her back. She sighed beneath the caress.

“Gotta shave,” he excused himself, yanking open the shower door and letting the chill sweep in as he took his leave. Once again, she washed her own hair. He’d used up most of the conditioner. She made a mental note to buy more.

She heard him bellowing at her over the spray and the buzzing of his electric razor. “That’s what you’re wearing, baby?”

“Yes,” she called back.

“Why this pair of pants? Don’t you have a skirt?”

“Yes.”

“So wear a skirt.”

“I’m wearing the pants,” she carped.

“No,” he insisted. “You’re not wearing this funky looking hat, either.”

Ororo turned off the spray and swaddled herself in a towel. She leaned out of the door frame, narrowing her eyes at him. “My outfit’s fine. I like the hat. Deal with it.”

“No. You don’t have to go to breakfast with me if you’re going to wear that.”

“I don’t.”

“No. You don’t.”

“Pietro…this is silly. Why are you being so hardheaded about what I want to wear?”

“Because I hate that outfit. Just wear something else. You have other clothes, you go shopping often enough,” he accused, not looking at her. He peered at his reflection, cleaning up his jaw with his Schick blade.

“I like that outfit. I already picked it out. You haven’t even picked out your own clothes yet, and you’ll strut around in your underwear reading the sports page and giving me crap to do like ironing your pants, and finding your socks and your missing shoe…”

“Don’t start that shit.”

“I didn’t. You did.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“I’ll be the judge of whether you started something, not you.”

“You’ll be the judge…fine. Stay home. Go out with Anna and Lorna and all of your other girlfriends that don’t have lives of their own for breakfast, then.” He turned away from the mirror and leaned his face toward hers, holding his hands out in a gesture of mock defeat. “I don’t care. Really. I don’t give a damn at all. Eat. Starve. Stay. But don’t embarrass me by going out in that outfit.”

“Don’t. Embarrass. You.” Ororo heard the fiddles from “Psycho” whining in the back of her brain for two seconds, and the air between them grew discernibly thicker. Time stood still. She saw the faint flare of Pietro’s nostrils as he took up his defensive stance.

“What’s with you? You change the outfit, we can get on the road. How hard is that?”

“How hard is letting me put on my clothes and go outside to start the car? Sounds pretty easy to me. If you’ll get out of my way and quit hogging the sink, I can do my hair.”

“You’re planning on wearing that ugly ass hat, and now you want to do your hair? Why bother? Go out the door looking like Miss Freaky Deaky Hippie. Don’t shave your pits. Peace, man!” He held up his two fingers in a V, inches from her face, crossing his eyes.

“Hold up. What’s this shit all about? Why are you giving me such a hard time?”

“I’m not. I want to help you pick out something else to wear.” Pietro picked up Ororo’s pants and made a move to hang them back up.

“Put those down.”

“Uh-uh.” They tussled over the pants. Tussled. She prized them away from him, frowning over how crumpled they became from his twisting grip.

“Thanks bunches,” she snarled.

“Fine. You’re gonna wear them anyway. Ooh, that’ll show me.”

“Someone needs to show you,” she huffed. The warm glow of waking up in each other’s arms evaporated with the last of the steam from the shower. “Punk. Ass. Fucker.” She grabbed up her clothes and trotted down the hall to the second bath. She yanked them on over her favorite pale blue satin bra and bikini brief set from Victoria’s Secret and squirted a spritz of Liz Claiborne Curve onto her pulse. The fresh, flowery scent calmed her for a moment. She leaned her hands against the vanity and stared at herself in the mirror.

Pietro was trying to run the show. He was riding her butt. And she was knocking herself out, trying to figure him out. If she hadn’t figured him out after five years, when would she? She tugged on her clothes and continued with her grooming, slathering it with Biosilk oil moisturizer and yanking her wide-toothed comb through it, letting it fall into its natural waves that would spring into curls as the day progressed. She painted a slash of lipstick across her pout and frowned at herself.

“This’ll just have to do.” She steeled herself before walking out to grab her boots. She brushed past Pietro as she grabbed her beanie.

“You’re not wearing that hat, I said.”

“I’m supposedly not going with you, remember?”

“Oh, NOW you’re not going with me.”

“You said it first.” She pulled on her beanie and stepped into her boots. She watched him with undiluted defiance. “Have fun at your dad’s. Maybe you can call him and tell him I couldn’t make it.”

“Why would I do that, if you’re going?”

“Because I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I’m not changing.”

“Fine. Then don’t.” Pietro took umbrage by flinging half of his shirts from the closet and trying them on, one by one until he found one that suited him. Ororo eyed the pile of previously clean, pressed shirts with disgust; each one now bore the smell of his aftershave and smears of deodorant on them. Nice. The male equivalent of the “I look fat in that” pile.

And into the car they climbed, bickering and snapping the whole way down the expressway. They fought over radio stations before fighting over CDs. They fought over where to stop for gas. They held a glaring contest over the console over who got the armrest. They were still snarling at each other when they finally reached the Lensherrs’ fine home. Pietro purposely backed the car into the driveway and gave Ororo mere inches to get out on the passenger side, forcing her into the hedge.

“Bitch ass,” she bitched.

“Who’s the bitch?” Then Pietro suddenly chuckled.

“What’re you laughing at?”

“Take this thing off!” He peeled away the Daffy Duck bandage with a none-too-gentle rip.

“OW!” Ororo heard Eric’s footsteps before she could even knock, and she was still rubbing the sore spot when he flung open the door.

“Ooh. Sorry.”

“Sure you are,” she hissed. “Hmmph.” She rubbed at the slightly tacky residue left on her skin from the bandage strip, wincing at the still tender spot. She eased her cap slightly lower in an effort to cover the bruise and thick scab. She looked up and met Eric’s smiling, pale blue eyes and broad smile.

“It’s about time! I didn’t think you two would get here until the cows came home!” Eric waved them in, stepping aside to let them enter the foyer. The house already smelled like breakfast, and Ororo’s mouth watered at the scent of cinnamon and butter in the air. “Eloise made her sweet buns, but we have other things for you this morning, Rory.”

“I can split one with ‘Tro,” she whined petulantly, leaning into a peck on the cheek that he offered her. He shooed them into the living room and deftly tossed Pietro the remote control to his 42-inch plasma screen TV.

“Where’s Lee?” Pietro inquired.

“She had bridge club. She might come join us for lunch.”

“We’ll be back on the road by then,” Ororo suggested plaintively. She hadn’t planned on being there all day. She had to go over her proposal for a new Web shopping portal she’d been contracted to upgrade and design the new banners for three different clients’ sites, and she wanted to get a head start on it. Her Photoshop suite was calling her name. Pietro, she knew, would nag her off the PC or distract her in the background with his phone calls to his friends or family, or his football and boxing matches blaring at top volume, driving her to escape with her laptop to a cyber café for some hard-won peace. She didn’t have Photoshop on the laptop, but least she could answer her email and manage her expenses from it. Jean had also tentatively suggested perusing the bridal shops again to see if they could find all of the bridesmaids matching earrings this time that wouldn’t make them look like game show hostesses or pageant contestants.

Pietro’s grip on her hand tightened as he recovered, still flipping channels with his free hand. “We might stay a while, Dad.”

“Wanda was considering coming over for dinner,” Eric announced cheerfully. “She’s bringing Thomas and Phinnaeus with her to visit their grandfather.” There was a note of pride in his tone, and he seemed to puff up before their eyes. He fixed his gaze on his son and his girlfriend unabashedly. “Having two little boys running around is nice, but I wouldn’t mind a granddaughter one day. Of course, Wanda can’t have all the children in the family…” He cocked on silvery brow.

“Yeah. Good luck on that,” Pietro muttered, continuing to flip channels idly. Ororo felt an odd little lump in her throat and craved a drink of orange juice. She pried her fingers loose from Pietro, whose grip she had to wrestle herself from before she stood.

“I’ll go see if Eloise needs help setting the table,” she began.

“She’s already taken care of it. But come on, Rory, you can peek at the new china Lee bought for us at a steal last week from Noritake! We’re not eating off of it until dinner,” he winked. Ororo smothered a sigh and allowed herself to be led into the dining room. Eric opened the breakfront and held up a beautiful gold-rimmed dinner plate with a subtle, swirled motif dancing around the border. Ororo ooh’ed and ah’ed and agreed that yes, Lee did have exquisite taste. And yes, they could only have things like these after their children were grown, of course, once they had children…well, she agreed. Eric did all the talking and continued to interrogate her good-naturedly about her job.

“When is that lazy son of mine going to renovate your house like he promised? You said you were planning on redoing the bathroom the last time you were here?” That had been a month ago.

“Pfft.” Pietro snorted from the couch as he speed-watched every sports channel he could find, then skipped back and forth among them during the commercials.

“We were going to wait until summer. So we can paint and put down new vinyl.”

“The weather’s still warm enough.” It was early October. “Why wait the better part of a year? Don’t put it off, Rory. It’s important to have a nice home. Let my son give it to you, that’s his job. You take care of him, he builds you a home that you and the children deserve. Don’t let this guy keep putting if off. Just say the word, and I’ll come over and whip the place into shape.” It was a common threat. The silent threat of “I’ll whip him into shape, too” hung in the air. Lensherr Quality Homes took over twenty years of blood, sweat and tears to grow into the largest construction and contracting firm in the borough. Eric Lensherr started his business with a beat-up truck, a box of tools and his own two hands when he was barely eighteen, a fact that he never let Pietro forget.

“I want to help build the home we have, too.” Especially since it was Ororo’s home, anyway. Two people couldn’t live as affordably as one, but Pietro split rent and utilities, and they both bought food whenever the pantry was down to bare crumbs. But she had signed the house note, using a down payment from her parents’ estate and a nest egg that she’d been saving ever since she paid off her student loans. The ink was dried on the mortgage way before Pietro stepped into her life and kissed her silly.

“Don’t let him get away with letting you work your fingers off. Make him treat you like a princess!” Eric walked up and yanked Pietro’s ear heartily, making his son grimace and bat his hand away.

“Get off, get off!”

“Wanda’s husband knows how to take care of her.”

“Isn’t that nice for her,” he spat, smirking his way back to his game. Ororo tiptoed into the kitchen and peered into the chrome refrigerator, searching for juice. She found a huge, frosty pitcher of some that looked fresh squeezed and still had pulp floating on the top. She poured herself half a glass and drank it over the sink, nearly jumping out of her skin when Eloise came back into the kitchen as the oven timer went off.

“Rory! I didn’t even hear you two come in!” Ororo grinned at Eric’s housekeeper, who always reminded her of an older, plumper Betty Crocker. “Sit, sit. Pull up a chair.”

“I need something to do. What do you need help with?”

“Taste this for me and tell me if it’s any good,” she beckoned, pulling a pan of caramel pecan rolls from the oven.

“Oooooh. Yummy. Maybe just give me the corner off of one…mmmmm. Mmmmm. Heaven. That’s fabulous.” Ororo savored the proffered tidbit of sinfully rich bread after blowing on it to cool it off. She licked the glaze from her fingers and tweaked off a lump of pecan that fell off as Eloise lifted the rolls from the pan and slid them onto the serving dish.

“What happened to your head, Rory?”

“Oh. I just had a little accident last night while I was making dinner. I’m fine,” she hedged.

“An accident?”

“I was dizzy. I bumped my head on the kitchen counter.”

“Oh, Rory! Are you all right?” Her face was the picture of worry, and the rise in her voice caught Eric’s attention. He strode in just as Eloise was pulling off Ororo’s beanie and prodding her wound with gentle fingertips. Ororo blushed.

Here we go again…

“What on earth did you do to yourself? Where was Pietro when this happened?”

“He was right where he needed to be. He took me to the E/R last night. They gave me a little shot of glucose. I’m good as new.”

“You’re working too hard. You need to take better care of yourself, Rory.”

“That’s what I told her, Dad.” Ororo narrowed her eyes at him across the room before she carefully retrieved her hat from Eloise and hung it up on the hook. She ran her fingers through her hair uneasily, trying to smooth it and come up with a different topic.

“I had a long day. I missed my snack. Pietro took good care of me.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Eric rumpled his forehead at the cut, tsking at the purple bruising that still hadn’t faded. “All right. Let’s eat.” Eloise served them in the dining room on the regular china and left them to their meal. Ororo helped herself to half of the roll she’d already sampled and ladled a modest amount of scrambled eggs onto her plate, along with two turkey sausage links. She found herself toying with the food as Eric plied them with more questions that made Ororo watch the wall clock more anxiously than usual.

“Does anyone else in your family have the same problem with their blood sugar, Rory?”

“My dad did. He was type one.”

“How did he handle it?”

“Insulin injections.”

“Hmmm. They have pumps now. It’s too bad he never had the chance to try that kind of treatment.”

“Sure. He managed himself as well as he could.” Ororo had a dim memory of her mother telling him to quit guzzling all the juice in the house, or they wouldn’t have any left for when he had an emergency. She’d taken to hoarding a stash of hard candies in the back of the cupboard and ordering Ororo and her brothers away from it under penalty of butt whuppings.

“So it’s hereditary?”

“Who can tell?” Pietro interjected, stealing a sausage link from Ororo’s plate. “She’ll be fine.”

“Magda’s sugar was all over the place when she carried you and Wanda, but she was fine afterward, by the grace of God.” Eric bit into his caramel roll with relish, licking up a stray hint of glaze that escaped into the corner of his mouth. “I’m depending on you for healthy grandchildren, young lady.”

“Aye, aye!” Ororo saluted him.

“Stop it,” Pietro hissed at her between his teeth. She looked askance at him and pinched his arm in his least favorite spot. He growled at her. She stuck out her tongue when his dad was cutting his steak.

The next two hours passed uneasily as their post-brunch drowsiness set in. Pietro stayed glued to the couch, flipping channels while he argued with his father about their picks for Fantasy Football and where to watch the boxing match for the following weekend. Ororo wandered into the den to find herself a book to read, ignoring Pietro’s advice to sit with him and just “hang out.” She was restless and bored. She didn’t want to dig out her razor phone and just call Jean up out of the blue; it would be rude.

Inevitably, though, Pietro just had to stir the pot. He found her in the den. “What’re you doing back here, moping around for?”

“I’m not moping. I’m reading.”

“You could go hang out with Eloise and help her start lunch.”

“Or we could go home,” she sang.

“You don’t want to go already, do you? Come on, don’t be like that. My sister’s coming for dinner.”

“Can’t we do something to entertain ourselves til she gets here?”

“Sure. We can hit the mall or pick up something to go with dinner?” It was a decent suggestion. But it didn’t come to full fruition until about an hour and a half later of occasional nudges from Ororo during a golf tournament, college basketball game, and an NFL playoff between two teams Pietro didn’t even follow. Ororo managed to pry him away from the Best Damned Sports Show long enough yank him out the door.

“Way to be rude,” Pietro grumped.

“Pull the car up so I can get in,” she shot back.

“Hold your horses.” The gloss of getting along wore off in the light of day, and with the first blast of cool air on Ororo’s cheeks. Eric and Aleytys were lovable enough. But when things between her and ‘Tro reached this funny, toxic little fever pitch…God help her. It was like beating her wings against a gilded cage.

Five years hadn’t brought a ring on her finger. Excuses, conditions, “quirks,” squabbles, and straight-up bullshit were leaking from the strained seams of what they had, like that beady stuffing of a bean bag that someone kept jumping on.

Pietro pulled the car out of the driveway, then made a play of jerking the car forward every time she tried to open the passenger door. “You think you’re cute,” she harped at him as she hopped in and slammed the door. She was pulling balls of lint off her cap and pulled it back on when Pietro pressed the button to open both windows, even though it made her hair blow around.

“So what’s your deal? Am I taking you all the way home?” Caution rippled up her nape, making the hairs stand on end.

“Are you?” She stared straight ahead. “We could have taken separate cars.”

“I didn’t know you were going to desert me.”

“You didn’t tell me we were staying all day long.” It was assumed though, since breakfast with Eric and Aleytys sometimes became an all-day affair.

“You act like I dragged you along. You didn’t have to come.”

“Don’t keep going back to that!”

“You didn’t.”

“Fine. I didn’t. This wasn’t a good idea.”

“You were waiting all day to say that, weren’t you? Nice of you to wait that long, ‘Ro.”

“Shut up.” Her voice was hard.

“Why? I can’t be honest? I wanted us to spend some time together. I brought you here so we could have a nice breakfast. I wanted to hang out and spend time with my sister and my nephews. And now you’re going to just sit around and sulk.”

“If Lee was here, I would have someone to talk to. Or if Wanda had showed up for breakfast, but she didn’t. It sounds like she isn’t going to be here for a few hours.”

“So I’ll take you home, then. Go on your PC. Call Jean and your other lonely little friends and bitch all about me and how I drag you along to my dad’s.”

“I don’t bitch about that.” Not all the time, anyway. “Stop giving me reason to start.”

“I’m not.”

“Like you’d know.”

“Fine. I’m an asshole.”

“You said it. Not me.” Ororo tried to change the radio station, but Pietro swatted her hand away from the dial and turned it to a hard rock station she hated, cranking it up needlessly when a Godsmack song blared its way out of the speakers. She was thankful to be left alone with her own angry thoughts for a few minutes.

She practically leapt from the car as soon as they pulled into their driveway, unbuckling her seatbelt and opening the door before he even put on the parking break. She slammed the car door shut, evoking a threatening bellow from him to quit it as she rammed her key into the front lock.

“So you’re staying here?”

“Go to the store. Tell him I had cramps.”

“Sure. I’ll just tell him the truth, that you didn’t feel like gracing us with your presence. Go ahead, be a bitch all afternoon.”

“Fine. I will.” She was already pressing the page button on the cordless in the kitchen, looking for the handset when it began to beep. She undug it from the couch cushions and pressed memory for Jean’s number that she had on speed dial.

“So that’s it.”

“Yes.”

“Fine.” He was still glaring at her. “I can’t believe you made me bring you back already. You could have just stayed here…”

“No shit, Sherlock!” She faced him down. His pupils were dilated, and he had that funny little tightness around his mouth.

“Why do you have to be this way?”

“I’m not any different than I was the day that we met.”

“Like hell. That’s your excuse. You used to be fun. You used to at least be nice about going to see my family.”

“I enjoy them. But you plan everything with them with only a minute’s notice. You count me out whenever you count them in. And that little line about how you always tell me to take care of myself was nice; you just had to throw that in for good measure.”

“I’m going, already. Give me a kiss.” He tried to pry the phone from her, but she held fast to it. They struggled, and she kept blunting his attempt at a kiss with the palm of her hand, covering every spot on her face that he lunged to peck. “Come on, give me one already.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want to.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t.”

“Just give me one, and I’ll leave.”

“No. Just leave.” And on, and on, and on…Ororo was gradually wrestled to the couch, and tickled, poked, and crowded into submission.

“I love you.” He nudged the tip of her nose with his.

“Sure you do.” He always said that when she was sick of him.

“You love me, too.”

“Keep telling yourself that.” She did. Even though wrapping her favorite frying pan around the back of his head was tempting…he kissed her, and she felt him grow hard.

“Gonna give me some when I get home?”

“Not even.”

“Why not?”

Gads…

“Just go!”

“Bye!” He helped her up, then gave her one final, retaliatory smack on the butt before he left. Ororo released a ragged sigh and called Jean.

“If you love me, get me out of here for the next couple of hours!” Ororo watched Pietro drive off and put her hair back on. She finished straightening up her lipstick before Jean pulled into her driveway.

“Is he being a dickhead again?”

“I need a decaf mocha. Then we’ll talk.”

They piled into Jean’s BMW. “I like your hat,” Jean remarked. “It’s cute on you.”

“Good. Now I feel validated.” Ororo leaned her chin on her hand as she stared out the passenger window. “SO want to kill him.”

“So, let’s chill out and do girl stuff! Better yet, let’s have another girl’s night out. They’ve got a live band tonight that’s supposedly pretty good. Lila Cheney’s singing with them, too.”

“Ooh. That wouldn’t be too bad.”

“Nope. Should be pretty good. What time’s ‘Tro going to be home?”

“Late. Wanda’s coming for dinner.”

“Why didn’t you stay?”

“The usual reasons. I can’t make myself at home at someone else’s home all day with nothing to do. Wasn’t like I could bring my laptop with me.”

“Why not?”

“Because I got nagged to death the last time.”

“Ah. Never mind, then.”

“I don’t play bridge or knit or do any of that other domestic crap. I’m not in a red hat club. That’s not me.”

“It could be.” Jean belonged to Westchester County Soroptimist’s Society and Toastmasters.

“Eh.”

“Eh?”

“Eh.”

“Right. Moving on. I need you to help me pick out earrings.”

“The last ones aren’t bad.”

“I looked at them again today, and I hate them.”

“Right. Hate them. Got it. Let’s go.” They stopped at a Java Detour drive-thru café and picked up iced mochas.

“What happened to your head?”

“Didn’t eat soon enough. Blacked out. It hit me hard. Put a dent in the kitchen counter on the way down.”

“Ouch!”

“Yeah.”

“Seems like you’ve been getting those episodes more often lately, Ororo.”

“I’m fine,” she qualified.

“You have to promise me you won’t go passing out at the wedding!”

“I won’t!” She lipped up the whipped cream from her straw. “It’s just all about you…” she accused.

“Of course it is.” Jean’s tone was matter-of-fact. “Was ‘Tro there when it happened?”

“Yup. Scared the crap out of him.” She’d waited for him. She’d eaten crappy take-out for lunch and regretted it. Pietro called her at five to let her know he was working late, figuring to be home at six-ish. Seven-fifteen rolled around, and Ororo had already finished making the salad and chicken. Her stomach had growled, but she didn’t want to fill up on Triscuits and cheese and have him catch her munching when he came in through the door. She hated those lectures. Eight o’clock found her contemplating the rapidly cooling food when a wave of dizzy chills hit her. She fumbled in the cabinets for the Tang, her TicTacs, a Triscuit, anything…

It hadn’t been the first time he’d been that late.

“Poor guy. Poor you,” Jean sympathized.

Gonna be okay. Just need a drink. Just…a drink. Too hot. Can’t breathe…can’t…think…

The tile counter felt cool beneath her palms as she retrieved a spoon, yanking off the paper filter from the jar of Tang. She managed to scoop two spoonfuls into the water, which sloshed in the glass after she poured it. She paused long enough to fan herself, just before she heard ‘Tro’s key turn in the lock…

“What are you fixing, ‘Ro?” His voice trailed off, the room spun, and she felt a sharp pain and heard the thud before she tumbled.

She never got to tell him that all she’d found in the freezer to fix were the chicken breasts, they didn’t have any potatoes left to put with them.

“It’s just something I deal with. He knows that. He knew that going in.”

“It scares him. Make sure he knows what to do.”

“He’s learning.”

“Make sure he knows what it means in the long run,” Jean cautioned.

“He will.” Ororo’s voice was uncertain. “So…what time for Harry’s?”





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