wishing he could be stuck to anyone in the world but me. . . .
And then he laughs. It’s a choked sort of laugh, like he doesn’t want to give in to it.
“Come on,” I say, before we can get into it again. The two of us seem to do best when we keep moving; it’s only when we stop that we dwell on things that are probably better left alone.
Tugging at his hand, I draw Smith back inside the house. He follows without resistance as I lead him into the kitchen, pull out the coffeemaker, and begin the process of brewing up a big pot of caffeinated sludge.
“You’re making that kind of strong,” Smith notes as I fill the filter to the brim with grounds.
“Yep,” I reply. “That’s kinda the point. It’s only”—I twist around to get a peek at the clock on the microwave—“two thirty and my spine is already getting that liquidy feeling, like it’s not gonna hold me up much longer.”
“So you want me to pour it down your back when it’s done brewing?”
I smirk. “Maybe. Anything to stay awake.”
“Or,” Smith says, “we could stretch out on those big couches and take a little nap while we wait for your uncles to show up and Dyl to wander back.”
I turn to stare at Smith in disbelief. “One doesn’t nap in the middle of a shit storm.”
Smith laughs, which I think is a concession, but no, Smith never concedes. “No, the shit storm has passed. We are now up shit creek without a paddle. Which means we’re stuck and might as well go gently down the stream. Think about it,” he says, pulling me back into the living room toward my uncles’ admittedly super-comfy couches. “A power nap. Fifteen minutes, tops. We rest our eyes and wake up refreshed with a big pot of coffee ready to be slurped down for an extra boost.”
He flops onto the couch, taking me with him. I’d like to say I put up a fight. Instead, a little sigh escapes me. Smith leans into me and I lean right back, letting my head rest on his shoulder. “Gently down the stream,” I murmur softly as my eyes start to drift closed. “Life is but a dream.” Then I have a sudden and terrifying vision of Larry with foam dribbling out between his lips. I jerk back up.
“Yeah, no, not tired,” I lie.
“Lennie, you just yawned like ten times.”
“Not ’cause I’m tired.” I pause to disguise a yawn as an annoyed sigh. “I’m bored, actually. It’s been nonstop action all day and now this is . . . well, it’s kinda boring sitting here.”
“Okay, I got a better idea,” Smith says. He reaches forward and after digging around a little pulls a little blue ukulele out from under the pile of stuff that lives under the coffee table.
“How’d you even see that under there?” I ask. “Uncle Rod got that a few years ago to impress one of his lady friends. When it failed I think he blamed the ukulele and banished it.”
“I have good eyes,” he replies with a grin. “And now for some bedtime, er, power nap music.” I open my mouth to argue, but Smith is already positioning the ukulele so that the neck is in his free hand while the body rests between our two legs. “I’m gonna need some help from you.”
“Sorry.” I tuck my free hand behind my back. “I’m not musical. I’d probably break it.”
“Come on, Lennie.” He gives the baby guitar a little jiggle as if to show it won’t bite. “All you gotta do is strum when I give your hand a squeeze.” His fingers, locked around mine, tighten, demonstrating how it works.
Reluctantly, I squeeze back. “Fine. But don’t blame me if it sucks.”
Ignoring my whining, Smith begins to pluck at the strings and then reaches up to twist the tuning knobs until, I guess, it sounds the way it should. Then he looks at me. “Ready?”
I shrug. “Yes?”
Smith grins in response. “Okay, let’s practice your strumming first. Just run your fingers—”
I cut him off. “I’m not a complete idiot. I know how to strum a guitar.” To prove my lack of idiocy, I do exactly that. Or I try to. It’s actually harder than it looks to gauge the right pressure to apply in order to hit all the strings in one smooth movement. But after a few minutes I get the hang of it and start to feel pretty confident that