I unzipped his jacket and handed it across the seat to him and then got out of the car, glad the rain had calmed to a sensible drizzle.
“Hey,” he said and I ducked my head back in.
“Do you know who Brontë is named after?”
“I’m assuming Charlotte, Anne, or Emily. Or perhaps all three?”
He nodded. “Just checking.”
I gave him a confused smile and then started to shut the door but stopped to duck my head in once more.
“Oh, and Alex Clarke is a pompous ass.”
I grinned at the sound of his laughter as I hurried up the front steps to my house.
Chapter 11
Graham
It was hard to call my third time walking by Lior’s brownstone accidental when I was carrying a note for her in my pocket.
It wasn’t anything scandalous. Just a little, “Hope your friend is feeling better” message. But I felt like I was in middle school every time I slowed down near her stoop, and then inevitably kept walking, afraid she’d think I was uncool, like most girls in middle school had when I was there.
Also, why was I trying to make contact with the woman I’d sworn, childishly I admit, to hate forever? As our initial meeting had shown, she was clearly the type I often fell for and regretted later. I was a magnet for women who could only be described as brats.
Except, that wasn’t exactly true in Lior’s case. Or at least, I’d perhaps jumped the gun on my opinion of her. Granted, that first impression hadn’t been great on her end, but now I knew why.
Still. There was that age-old saying, wasn’t there?
If someone shows you who they are, believe them.
“Does that still count in this case?” I asked Brontë.
A soft breeze kicked up and she lifted her face, sniffing at the air.
“Was that a yes or no? I could really use more clarity, please.”
Suddenly my slow-moving old girl was pulling on her leash and stepping onto the first step of Lior’s front porch.
“Whoa,” I said, panicking. “What are you doing?”
But she was on a mission, ignoring my gentle tugs on the leash as she pushed onwards and upwards towards the front door.
“I guess this is your way of saying I should leave the damn note already?”
Fine. She had a point. But still, my heart was pounding in my chest. What if Lior opened the door and wasn’t exactly thrilled to see me standing there?
“Fuck it,” I murmured, sliding my hand into my pocket and grasping the folded paper with my fingertips.
When we got to the top, Brontë beelined for an item in the corner near the doormat.
The shoe.
“Ah,” I said. “You smell you! I’m not sure if I’m impressed or disgusted, my friend.”
She sniffed at it, her tail thwacking twice against my leg, and then nosed the sneaker, knocking it over so that I could see the bottom and that it was indeed the shoe, the underside still marred by poo. I let go of the note in my pocket and leaned down, grabbing it by the laces and lifting it above Brontë’s head.
“I suppose the least we could do is clean it and give it back, right? What do you think. We might even make a new friend as a result. At the very least, she might stop glaring at me when she sees me.” I stared down at Brontë and she looked up, her soulful brown eyes meeting mine. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
