When I look up, Teddy is standing in the doorway and he’s laying his hand over his heart in a theatrical display of hurt.
Mom says, “Are you being nice and careful, sweetie? Locking up the front door at night?”
“That was a long time ago.”
I don’t know what’s worse, her careful question or the sarcasm in Dad’s voice. Sometimes, in my dreams, I’m just checking a door handle, over and over. “Sorry to have to hang up, but the . . . maintenance guy just walked in. Can I call you back tonight?”
“I’ve got pickups tonight, silly billy.” She’s been out driving her van picking up donated food from restaurants and grocery stores since I was a kid. “But I’ll talk to you tomorrow morning. I want to hear everything you’ve been getting up to.” We hang up and she’s unaware that I’m a loser and she’s gotten my full update.
Teddy pulls up a chair and sits across from me. He plucks the Post-it note off the back of my hand and sticks it to his chest. “Hi,” he says, closing his eyes. “I am your friend, whether you like it or not.”
If that’s true, maybe I’ll walk out first. Someone can see the back of me as I walk away. I start to push my chair back, but he just says with so much need: “Please stay.”
He’s tousled and tired and I have to admit it: he’s someone I want to look at. While his eyes are closed, I can. His dark navy T-shirt is stretched tight across his body, and I’ve got some new tattoos to look at. I’ll let myself have a few from the midbicep region. Goldfish. Swan. Jar containing one (1) human heart. He’s moving his arm now, and I get a couple of bonuses. A stiletto shoe, a dagger, a black feather. And it’s when his arm is extended out from his body, turning his wrist up to me, that I realize his eyes are open and he’s showing himself to me.
“Sorry, sorry.” I’m sure I go red. “So what have they had you doing?”
He folds his arm back across his stomach. “My first mistake was to say I’m not a morning person.”
“Oh Teddy. Very foolish.”
“My new start time for the rest of the week is six A.M.” He gives me a look of genuine resentment. “You could have trained me, so I knew how to play this. But you just threw me in the deep end on purpose. What did I ever do to you?”
The gas station hysterics come to mind. Ditto getting Providence on his dad’s bulldozer list. He’s blissfully unaware of either crime. Here’s the most annoying part of this: It’s impossible to maintain the irritation I wish I could have with him. He’s my friend, whether I like it or not.
“I knew you could handle it.”
Big grumbling sigh. “After I buried the white shirt under a lemon tree, Renata told me I’d buried it under the wrong tree. So I dig it up, rebury it, and I think I’m done. But then she decides maybe it wasn’t so bad after all, so I redig it, and have to hand-wash it in the laundry.”
“Sure. Okay.”
“You are not remotely surprised. What crazy shit have you seen?” His eyes have gone wild.
“I’ve seen everything. And don’t forget, every time one of you quit, it’s me digging and reburying. Anyway, I’m sure you need to get back to them.” The pull to walk up to the rec center is almost overwhelming. He waves me down.
“I’m not done venting. That only takes us up to a quarter past nine. Ruthie, the things I’ve done this morning are just illogical. Is she . . . of sound mind?” He shakes his head. “I did the Cupboard Cake Challenge.”
“Ah. I’ve done that.” (Make a cake with what you can find.)
“They had no flour. I ended up making this weird peanut flour in the food processor.”
“The point is, you tried.”
“Renata made me set the table for a tea party, with all the good china and a tablecloth, and serve them like a butler. I had to invent a tragic backstory for my character, and the cake was . . .” He tries to find a word. “An abomination. She made me bury it under the lemon tree in the original hole.” His bleary eyes catch onto mine. “
I have to do this again, every day, from six A.M.? It’ll be like purgatory.”
“Has Aggie talked to you about your salary?”
He perks. “It’s this strange arrangement,” he begins, then hears himself and shakes his head. “I mean, of course it is. She says she’s devised an incentive scheme. Every week I’m working for them, the salary doubles, to a capped amount that is some CEO-level shit. I could be at Christmas dinner telling everyone I’m officially a part owner of my studio.” He looks sideways, daydreaming.
“That’s great.” I smile encouragingly even though inside, I’m drooping.
“But I’m not going to make it. You were right.” He leans forward and drapes himself facedown across my desk. His cheek is on my calculator and the screen fills with numbers. “I should have known. You’re always right.”
“You’re very professional. Not at all dramatic.” I’m smiling anyway.
I don’t know what to do with this lax male body. His hair is twisted into a knot, held with a grim rubber band, and it’s depressing how much I wish it was loose, washing over me like a tsunami.