“What do you mean?” she called after him, seeing that he was already at her front door, toeing into his wingtips. “What do you mean you’re an idiot?”

“I—You—Shit.” John tried and failed to get a sentence out. “I’m an idiot for thinking that dancing at your party...sharing a chair with you...that those things were a green light. That it was all an indicator that maybe you wanted... Shit.”

He bent and tied one shoe and the next, his fingers as dexterous as his words apparently weren’t. He stood when his shoelaces were in a crisp knot, his hands jammed in his pockets.

“Mary, it is totally fine, more than fine, for you to change your mind about who you want to sleep with. I’m sorry if I’m guilting you. I’m trying not to. I’m being a dick. I’m just mad at myself for thinking... Shit. I’m gonna go.”

“Wait.” She held a hand out in a stop sign as her world tilted and his words filtered into her brain in a seemingly random order. He thought she’d changed her mind about him?! Oh, God. He thought that the “morning light” had shown poorly upon him? “Wait, John.”

“No, I’d rather go. It’s okay, Mary. I understand. Beer goggles happen to the best of us.” He gave her a grim look that was probably an understanding smile in his mind. “You don’t have to apologize. And frankly, I don’t think I can handle you being sweet to me right now. So. Yeah. I’m gonna go. I have to go.”

He undid her locks, pulled open the door and pounded down her stairs. She heard her bottom door close, and then all was silent in her apartment.

“Beer goggles?” she said aloud, to no one. The thought was so ridiculous she laughed, but the sound was incredulous, bitter, horrified. “He thinks I had beer goggles for him? He is an idiot. He’s an idiotic, sweet, sexy, perfect... Shit.” She replayed their conversation in her head and realized how it all would have sounded to someone who was dealing with his own insecurities. She had just figured that how she’d been feeling about herself was so loud and insistent that there was no way in hell he’d been misinterpreting her meaning.

And now John was getting on the train thinking that she regretted kissing him, being with him, cuddling him on the barstool.

She glanced at the wall clock—5:10 a.m. If she left now, she could still catch him before work.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

WELL, HE WAS back in Ruthlandia.

Not that bad a place to be, if he was being honest.