The Same Place (The Lamb and the Lion #2) - Gregory Ashe Page 0,22

of everything, plus lots of sugar and cream for Tean’s coffee—and then they drove toward Wasatch Hollow and Hannah’s house.

It still wasn’t eight by the time they parked the Mercedes on a cross street, right at the corner where they had a good view of Hannah’s house. The neighborhood was quiet. Jem had lived in a place like this once or twice as he bounced through the foster system, and he knew what Sunday mornings were like. In some imaginary ideal home, the parents were already up, devoutly reading their scriptures, praying over cantaloupe wedges, dressing in white shirts and ties or conservative dresses. The children were probably well into their second hour of pure, unadulterated childlike prayer and reflection. In reality, the parents were probably trying to find clean socks, and the kids were still asleep, and by the time everyone was ready for church, they would have already had a few really good fights, and the day would be ruined.

As Jem unwrapped an Egg McMuffin, he said, “Call Hannah and tell her to let people know we’re parked out here. You know, so we don’t get the Doobie Brothers breathing down our necks again.”

Tean made the call.

When he finished, Jem held out the second Egg McMuffin, the waxed paper cuffed back.

“I’m not hungry,” Tean said.

“I know; you’re never hungry. You still need to eat.”

“I already ate.”

“What did you eat?”

“Breakfast.”

Jem tried really, really hard not to roll his eyes. He lost. “What specifically did you eat for breakfast?”

“Food.”

“God, you are really on one today.”

Tean folded his arms. Unfolded them. He seemed to consider the pink polo, and he gave it a solid yank.

“Let me guess,” Jem said. “You and Scipio split a bowl of kibble.”

Tean hesitated; then he decided on folding his arms again.

“No, no, no. I’ve got it. You had one lentil. One mushy, overcooked lentil that you saved in the pot from dinner last night.”

Faster than Jem had expected, Tean turned on him. The glasses slid straight down to the end of his nose and balanced precariously on the tip. “I don’t ever want to talk about money with you. Do you understand that?”

“Um. No. Not really.”

“What don’t you understand?”

“Why?”

“That’s not your business.”

“You’re my best friend; everything in your life is my business.”

“Not this. I don’t want to talk about money. I don’t want to joke about it. I don’t want you teasing me about it.”

“Are you still feeling your feelings?”

“Yes,” Tean shouted. “Obviously.”

For half a second, neither of them moved. Then a tiny smile escaped; Jem couldn’t stop it. After another second, Tean flushed, the rigid lines of anger in his face replaced by embarrassment. Jem used his knuckle to bump the glasses back into place.

“God, you are adorable,” Jem said.

“I’m a thirty-six-year-old man. I’m not adorable. And I’m not hungry.”

“Here’s the problem,” Jem said, “as I see it, anyway. If you don’t eat this Egg McMuffin, I’m going to eat it. And if I eat it, it’s just going to spike my cholesterol even higher. And then I’m going to have a heart attack. And you won’t be able to perform CPR because you’ll be so upset about your best friend having a heart attack.”

“Regular, normal-level friend.” Tean looked like he wanted to stop there, but the hook was already set. “And it probably won’t be a heart attack. It’ll probably be choking. Because you swallow those sandwiches whole like a duck, and it’ll get stuck in your throat, and I won’t even be able to give you an emergency tracheotomy because you’ll have aspirated your hash brown.”

“God, yes, that’s so bleak. And then?”

“And then you’ll be dead. And I’ll be publicly shamed for not having saved you. And I’ll run away with that off-brand Mexican circus that comes through every year.”

“And you’ll start boning the lion tamer.”

“And I’ll—no, I won’t. And I’ll get caught up in some sort of cartel drug-running mule operation and I’ll get my butt packed with heroin.”

“Interesting. Tell me why your mind went immediately to getting your butt—”

“And then I’ll probably mess it up somehow and the cartel will cut my face off and I’ll have to wear a big floppy hat and a veil.”

“Now bring it home.”

“And I’ll die alone, probably in the desert, and someone will find me a hundred years later and put me in a children’s museum or something like that. Still wearing the floppy hat and veil.”

“Wow. But honestly, not as dark as I was expecting—”

“And then the museum will burn down while several orphanages