Getting Dumped by Tawna Fenske

trying to discern my comfort level with being alone in the kitchen with Pete.
    I nodded once, prompting my protective baby sister to perch on the arm of the sofa as far from Adam as she could possibly be while still sharing the same piece of furniture.
    I could feel Pete right behind me as I rounded the corner into the kitchen and used my elbow to nudge on the faucet. I stuck my hands under the water and began scrubbing at the apricot goo.
    “You okay?” Pete asked as he pressed his glass against my refrigerator’s in-door icemaker.
    “I’m fine,” I said, daring to look up at him. “Sorry about the scene with Daniel. Kinda awkward.”
    “No problem,” Pete said. He set down his water glass and handed me a dishtowel. “I know all about how weird on-again, off-again relationships can be.”
    “Yeah?”
    “Yeah.”
    He didn’t elaborate, though I was dying to know if he was referring to his current girlfriend or someone else entirely.
    “I hope my being here didn’t make things more uncomfortable for you,” he added.
    “No, I was glad to have you here.”
    Pete smiled and my insides went gooey. I was pretty sure it wasn’t just the apricot balls.
    Before I could register what was happening, Pete caught my hand in his and gave it a squeeze. He held it for a few seconds, his eyes locked on mine with an intensity that made my stomach do a crazy little twirl.
    I opened my mouth, not sure what the hell I intended to say. Was this a friendly “I feel your pain” kind of squeeze or an “I want to get you naked” kind of squeeze?
    He let go of my hand before I could ask, then turned and walked back to the living room. I stood there like a moron with my jaw hanging open, the dishtowel dangling from my free hand, and every nerve in my body screaming More! More!
    “Hey, cool!” Pete’s voice called from the living room. “A Die Hard marathon.”
    “I know, right?” Adam replied. “So hypothetically speaking, in a fight between Colt McTrigger and John McClane, do you think you’d kick his ass?”
    “With or without the bionic arm?”
    “With. Obviously.”
    “Would he get a Taser gun?”
    Lori walked into the kitchen rolling her eyes.
    I set down the dish towel and sighed. “Something tells me this is going to be a long, weird evening.”
     
    THE NEXT MORNING, Lori and I met for coffee at a little bakery beside the police station. Since the cop last night had suggested stopping by in person, we’d decided to show up toting a box of donuts as a goodwill gesture.
    Lori held the donuts and we marched next door to the police station to explain the situation to the woman behind the counter.
    She didn’t look impressed.
    “So you want to complain about cheap handbags?” she said dryly, fingering a name badge that read Petty . I wasn’t sure if that was her name, the crimes she handled, or her personality.
    “It’s more complicated than that,” I said patiently, opening the bakery box to offer her a donut. “I found these scraps of fabric out at the landfill which lead me to conclude that someone is manufacturing counterfeit designer bags.”
    “Do people ever say you have quite the imagination?”
    “On occasion.”
    Petty eyed the pile of smelly fabric Lori had just upended on the counter beside the donuts.
    “Is that a slice of moldy carrot?”
    “Probably,” I admitted, flicking it off a piece of faux suede. “Anyway, I want to report it. The counterfeit bags. Not the carrot.”
    The woman sighed and glanced at her watch. “Everyone’s really busy right now. With slightly more pressing crimes.”
    Another cop walked past and eyed the bakery box with undisguised lust. He stopped in his tracks and stared, his gaze fixed on a particularly oozy jelly-filled number. I watched him, wondering if he might be a better ally than Petty. His tag said Frank . A much better omen. Frank reached for the donut.
    “Look,” Lori said, folding her arms over her chest and looking like a disgruntled elf as she