Monday Mourning

The conversion to the good guys. Ryan’s rise within the provincial police."

"I’d also heard tales about Ryan’s present. The theme never varied. The guy was a player.

Often he suggested playing with me.

I have a steadfast rule against amour in the workplace.

But Ryan’s thinking is often at odds with mine. And he likes a challenge.

He persisted, I stood firm. Moving force. Resisting object. I’d been separated two years, knew I wouldn’t be returning to my husband, Pete. I liked Ryan. He was intelligent, sensitive, and sexy as hell.

Four months back. Guatemala. An emotionally battering time for us both. I decided to reassess.

I invited Ryan to North Carolina. I bought the mother lode of skimpies and a man-eater black dress. I took the plunge.

Ryan and I spent a week at the beach and hardly saw the ocean. Or the black dress.

My stomach did that flip thing it does when I think of Ryan. And that beach week.

Add another item to the list of positives. Canadian or not, the guy is Captain America in bed.

We’d been, if not “a couple,” at least “an item” since August. A secret item. We kept it to ourselves.

Our times together looked like the clichéd sequences in romantic comedies. Walking hand in hand. Cuddling by fires. Romping in leaves. Romping in bed.

So why the feeling that something is wrong?

Turning right onto Guy, I gave the question some thought.

There’d been long, late-night conversations following Ryan’s return to Montreal from North Carolina. Recently, the frequency of those calls had diminished.

Big deal. You’re in Montreal every month.

True. But Ryan had been less available on my last trip. Slammed at work, he claimed. I wondered.

I’d been so happy. Had I missed or misread some signals? Was Ryan distancing himself from me?

Was I imagining the whole thing, mooning like the heroine in a pulp fiction romance?

For distraction, I clicked on the radio.

Daniel Bélanger sang “Séche Tes Pleurs.” “Dry Your Tears.”

Good advice, Daniel.

The snow was coming faster now.

Whether we eat at his place or mine, Ryan usually prepares the meal. Tonight I’d volunteered.

I cook well, but not instinctively. I need recipes.

Arriving home at six, I spent a few minutes recapping my day for Birdie, then took out the folder in which I stuff menus clipped from the Gazette.

A five-minute search produced a winner. Grilled chicken breast with melon salsa. Wild rice. Tortilla and arugula salad.