He wasn’t talking about letting it go that long. He had just meant a day or two. A week or two. Just until we cooled down.
“Ryder—”
“I’m hungry,” he said, his voice not quite steady, but getting there. “Are you hungry?”
I was. But I was also very aware he was changing the subject. Trying to stay out of a fight. And maybe that was good. Maybe that was the right way to deal with this. But I couldn’t leave this here. Couldn’t remain in the hurt we’d caused.
“It’s not the wedding,” I said.
“I’m thinking tacos.”
“It’s notjustthe wedding.” I was striding along with him now, out of the garage, the wind gone cooler with the setting sun, heat and dust still drifting up from the gravel around us.
“Or we have chicken in the fridge. Grill it? We might have mushrooms.”
“I feel shitty that I’m not doing more for it. It’s like I’m not even a part of it.”
“Then do more!” he snapped. “Be a part of it. Make a decision. Pick a color. But if you say you’re going to do it, do it.”
“This is what I’m talking about. Everything is so serious. You have seventeen notebooks on flowers. Just on flowers!”
He spun and glared at me over the open back of his truck. “Now I’m the bad guy because I was trying to do my research?”
“Do I need to mention the cheese? The award-winning cheese that isn’t good enough for you? Or how about the twenty-four venues we’ve looked at that all had something wrong with them?”
“Mold is a health hazard. So is a leak in the roof. But if you want to get married on a leaky houseboat crawling with black death, then by all means, bring the hip waders!”
“Maybe I want to wear hip waders! Maybe that would be fun! Maybe it would be spontaneous. Hip waders for everyone.”
He tipped his head skyward, and I watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed down a scream. “Do you want to wear hip waders?” he asked the sky.
“No,” I said. “That wasn’t the point I was trying to make. I got a little off track.”
“So what is the point?” He tipped his chin down again, gave me a carefully neutral look. He was trying to listen. I knew he was. This was my chance to sort through the jumble of feelings and make everything better. Make everything right.
“I don’t…I don’t know.”
“Hello there?” a voice called out. “Hello? Might I ask you a question?”
Ryder frowned, and I’m sure my expression mirrored his.
Than, the god of Death, stood on the sidewalk, one hand lifted shoulder high like he was in class and uncertain if he should draw attention to himself.
“A question?” he repeated.
Ryder looked back at me. “See you at home.”
“I have to stop by Myra’s to tell her about the ghoul stuff.”
“What ghoul stuff?”
I nodded toward the garage. “Hogan smelled a ghoul on or in the car. Ghouls can eat flesh and take on the appearance of the thing they ate.”
“That’s disturbing.”
“Fingernails and hair works, too, I guess. So we might have a ghoul in town. Who might look like anyone. Except me. You know I’m me.”
“I do,” he said, “because no one drives me batty like you.” He must have heard how that sounded, and pulled up a smile, soft and genuine. “I’ll throw kebabs on the grill.”
