I turn away and do an elaborate yoga stretch to demonstrate my lack of concern, and Matt wanders out of the room again. Suddenly I hear a loud yell of shock. Then Matt reappears at the bedroom door, holding a torn mess of blue poplin.
“Ava,” he begins. “I hate to say it, but I think Harold got hold of one of my shirts, and…” He gestures at the shredded shirt and I wince.
“Oh God, sorry. I should have told you: Harold has a real thing about men’s shirts. They have to be kept out of his reach or he worries them to death.”
“Men’s shirts?” Matt looks astounded.
“Yes. He’s very intelligent,” I add, unable to hide my pride. “He can tell the difference between my clothes and a man’s shirt. He thinks he’s protecting me. Don’t you, Harold?” I add lovingly to him. “Are you my chief protector? Are you such a clever boy?”
“But…” Matt frowns, looking confused. “Sorry, I thought it was handbags Harold had a thing against. Now you’re saying it’s shirts?”
“It’s both,” I explain. “It’s different. He’s scared of handbags. He attacks them because of some trauma he experienced involving a handbag when he was a puppy. Whereas with shirts, he’s just asserting himself. He’s roughhousing. He’s like, ‘Take that, shirt! I’m the boss!’ ”
I glance down at Harold, who gives a little approving whine as though to say, “You understand me completely!”
Matt gazes silently at his mangled shirt, then at Harold’s perky face, then finally at me.
“Ava,” he says. “Do you know for a fact Harold experienced a trauma with a handbag when he was a puppy? Or have you invented it to account for his behavior?”
Instantly I feel my hackles rise on Harold’s behalf. What is this, the Spanish Inquisition?
“Well, obviously I don’t have detailed notes about the terrible abusive life Harold had before he was rescued,” I say, a little sarcastically. “Obviously I can’t go back in time. But I’m surmising. It’s obvious.”
Harold is looking from me to Matt with a bright, intelligent gaze, and I know he’s following the conversation. After a moment he trots over to Matt and looks up at him with hopeful, apologetic eyes, his tail gently thumping. Matt’s face softens, and after a moment he sighs.
“OK. Whatever. He didn’t mean any harm.”
He reaches down to ruffle Harold’s head and my heart melts all over again. Just when I think things are getting the tiniest bit prickly between Matt and me…something happens to make me remember why we’re meant to be.
I walk over, wrap my arms around him, and draw him into a long, loving kiss. After a few moments he kicks the bedroom door shut. And soon our clothes are all over the floor and I’m remembering exactly why we’re meant to be.
* * *
—
But by 5 A.M. I’ve learned that Matt’s bed and I are not meant to be. It’s the worst bed in the world. How can Matt sleep in it? How?
I’ve been awake since the Harold drama at 4 A.M., which was when Harold jumped on the bed to snuggle up, as he always does. It was so not a big deal. But Matt woke up and exclaimed, “What the hell!” and tried to push Harold off, still half asleep. Then Harold jumped up again and Matt said quite sternly, “Go to your bed, Harold!”
Whereupon I blurted out, “But he always ends up sleeping in bed with me!” and Matt said, aghast, “What? You never told me that.”
I mean, in hindsight, it wasn’t ideal, arguing about Harold in the middle of the night, both bleary and bad-tempered.
We tried to get Harold to sleep in his bed, but he whined and howled and kept jumping back on the bed till at last Matt snapped, “Fine. One night in bed. Now can we go to sleep?”
But Harold was all jumpy and playful by then. Which wasn’t his fault. He was confused, being in a strange place.
Anyway. He’s finally asleep now. And Matt’s asleep. But I am very much not asleep. I’m staring into the darkness, wondering how Matt can put up with this terrible, evil bed.
The mattress is super-hard—in fact, I’m loath to call it a mattress. It’s more like a wooden plank. The pillow is tough. And the bed cover is the flimsiest sheet of nothingness I’ve ever tried to sleep under. Every time I move, it rustles.