I nod. “Ah, I see.”
“Do you not have them in England?” She giggles.
My head slowly shakes. “Not that I’m aware of. Sounds…tacky, pandering for gifts. And expensive.”
Kaylee’s face falls but quickly recovers. “Oh, well—they’re a tradition here. They’re fun.”
I nod again. “I’m sure they are.”
Is it just me or do I sound like a prig?
Prudish and snotty?
The last room on the right takes no guesswork; Kaylee is using her index finger to open it, little grin tipping the corner of her mouth.
“And this is my room,” she declares, flicking the switch.
From the hallway, I peek inside.
Ribbons and trophies line a shelf, much like the equestrian ones my friends have from polo or whatever, but I’m guessing that’s not what these gleaming towers of accomplishment are from.
Another thing I notice about Kaylee’s room is that there are stuffed animals on the bed. I don’t know who told this girl those were good decorations or appealing to the male persuasion, but I am about to set her straight.
“So…where did all those stuffed animals come from?”
“I’ve been collecting them over the years.”
She walks into the bedroom and takes a pink stuffed bear in her arms, squeezing it. Then she fluffs the hair behind its ears as if it were an actual animal to be petted.
“This is Pink Bear.” She giggles. “When I was three, my dad gave me this for Valentine’s Day, and that’s what I named it because I wasn’t very original back then.” Another laugh. “I had a dog with spots named Spotty Dog, and a cat named Whiskers.” She demurely glances over at me with a smile on her face. “Did you have any pets growing up?”
“Yes, actually. We had some hounds my father used for hunting in the park.”
“You hunt in the park?”
Her eyes are as wide as saucers, and I give my head a shake. I’d forgotten that the word park means something entirely different in America than it does in England.
“Many times in England,” I explain, “a park is a large piece of land on an estate where there are fowl and stag. When I was growing up, my father used to also hunt fox for sport, but not so much anymore. Not since the animal rights activists latched onto that.” I chuckle. “Been a really long time, come to think of it—perhaps I was a young lad the last time he did.”
I can’t actually recall. Must be longer than I thought, though I do remember a few parties at the house, friends gathered, horses, the whole bit.
“Sounds fancy,” Kaylee says breathily, sitting on her bed, still hugging Pink Bear then reclining onto the lot of the remaining animals.
A bunny rabbit. Another bear. What looks to be an alligator.
“Do blokes fancy your collection?” I blurt out.
“Fancy my what?”
“Your collection—of animals.”
“I don’t know—I’ve never asked. I guess so?”
Doubt it.
I’m no expert, but there isn’t a single bloke on this planet who would fancy a fuck on top of a stuffed bunny.
Kaylee is absolutely adorable, but I have to get her out of this room—seeing her on top of that pile reminds me of Gertie in the movie ET, and I didn’t appreciate the stuffed animals then either. Creepy.
So unsexual.
Don’t get me wrong, she’s cute and all, but…
“Are you hungry?”
She sets the bear down behind her and stands. “I could eat a bite. And Eliza said you ate a lot, so I should probably feed you, huh?” She gives me a patronizing pat on the arm as she walks past, flipping off the light. I follow her back down the hallway and toward the kitchen where all the food is.
It’s approaching midnight, but I could always stand to eat, and if it’s going to get me out of that bedroom and back into the main living area, distracting her from the fact that she wants to make out with me, all the better.
It doesn’t seem as if Kaylee knows her way around the kitchen any better than I do; it’s a bit awkward watching her open and close cabinet after cabinet, searching. Opens the refrigerator. More cabinets.
She stands in the middle with her hand on her hips, glancing around. Turns toward me.
“What are you hungry for? We have, um, pizza and stuff? Maybe some leftovers from our dinner yesterday?” Her smile is cringey as she takes a plastic container out of the fridge, cracks open the lid, and peers inside. “Or spaghetti? I think this is from a few days ago.” She sniffs it. “Yeah, I think it’s still good.”
Pass.
Hard pass.
Maybe I’m not that hungry after all—I know for a fact I have some meals in my fridge that are better than whatever Kaylee is about to pull out of hers.
Six
Eliza
I cannot keep my eyes off the door.
I kept telling myself this morning as I was on my way to the coffee shop that this visit for breakfast is for no reason other than this is my special spot, and I’m hungry, and this is what I do some weekends.