Repeat - Kylie Scott Page 0,29
That’s unnecessary.”
“Okay,” he says, all easygoing like.
“And you’ll tell me if it gets to be too much. If I’m doing something wrong or that you don’t like.”
A nod.
“Or if I’m just generally irritating you and you need your space or whatever.”
Another nod.
“I promise not to yell at you again.”
“That would be nice.”
“All right.” I take a breath. “Don’t you have some ground rules for me?”
“Why don’t we just work it out as we go along?”
And I’m back to staring at him again. Maybe I’m just irritated by how much, deep down in the mire of my subconscious and soul, I actually want to be close to this man. To be in his house and part of his everyday life. When it all goes wrong and is taken away from me—an inevitability, given our history and how easily I tend to piss him off . . . well, it’s going to suck.
“She’s finished for the day,” calls out Iris, looking much too pleased by this turn of events. “You can take her home.”
Home. I’m not sure where the hell that is anymore, if I ever even had a clue to begin with.
* * *
Ed moves his easel and art supplies into a corner of the now somewhat crowded den. A surprisingly comfortable futon mattress thingy lies unrolled on the floor of the spare bedroom. My suitcase sits nearby, along with the stack of books Iris sent me home with. I didn’t let Ed carry them, either. Scattering my few things around is about as much commitment as I dare make to this new living situation.
At least there is one creature in the universe genuinely pleased with the new arrangement. Gordon is ecstatic, following me around constantly. Even going to the toilet without him is a challenge. It’s not that I don’t love him, but peeing in private is kind of a thing for me, apparently. When we sit down to eat dinner, he sits on the floor beside my chair, watching me with eager eyes.
“Don’t feed him from the table,” says Ed without looking up from his bowl of beef panang with jasmine rice. I have a green papaya salad with shrimp and vermicelli noodles. He ordered. It seemed easiest.
“I wasn’t going to.”
“Sure you were.”
“Stop pretending you can read my mind.”
The side of his mouth inches up. “I’m not reading your mind, Clem. I just know you, and as soon as he starts begging and making those eyes at you, you can’t help yourself.”
“Did you want some?” I nod at my bowl.
“There’s cilantro in it. Stuff tastes fucking horrible.”
“Huh. So I don’t eat coconut and you don’t eat cilantro.”
A grunt from Ed.
“Learn something new every day.”
Gordon whines ever so softly, his gaze shifting cautiously from my food to his owner. Not the most subtle of pups.
“Bad dog,” mutters Ed.
“That’s emotional abuse.” I turn to him. “I’ll be your witness, Gordy. I saw it all.”
This time Ed snorts. At this rate, who exactly is the bigger animal could be debatable.
“So, what do you normally do at night?”
He takes a swig of beer, shoulders just about up around his ears. Like he’s trying to make himself disappear in plain sight. Like my presence requires him to be permanently bracing for something. “I don’t know . . . watch TV, do some work, hit the gym.”
Note: he refrains from mentioning restaurants and possible amorous female companionship of the brunette variety. It’s a considerate, polite omission.
The following silence is broken only by Gordon’s continued near-silent yet heartbreaking pleas. If Ed wasn’t sitting right there just waiting for me to fuck up, I would totally feed the dog from the table. He was right about that much. Not that I would ever admit it out loud.
Maybe I should ask if we can put on some music. Anything would be better than this. On the walk home, the lack of communication didn’t seem so explicit and all-consuming. There were other people passing by, traffic on the street, and myriad things to make up for our lack of noise. But now, not so much.
“You know, I might finish eating in my room.” I start to rise, gathering up the bowl, utensils, and beer. “Do a bit more unpacking. Get organized for tomorrow.”
“Clem, sit.” He sighs. “You don’t have to hide in your room.”
My butt hovers above the chair, undecided. “Are you sure you haven’t had enough awkward for one evening? Because I kind of have. It’s been a long day and—”
“Please.”
I sit.
“Sorry. It’s just weird having you here.”
“Hmm.”