“I’m asking why you ended up with a woman like that, even if it was just for fun,” I retorted. “You’re always saying things to me about how bad Dax is, but at least he never went to jail.”
“It’s prison, sweetheart.”
“Don’t call me that,” I said irritably. I didn’t like when he said it sarcastically, like he was now. Once or twice, he’d seemed to say that word with real feeling, and I didn’t mind it then.
“Ok,Camille,” he answered, also irritated.
“Well?” I prompted. “Are you going to answer my question about your poor taste?”
He thought for a moment, washed another glass, and then said, “No.” I hung up my towel and left to watch football with my dad and mom. Lyra was sitting on her lap.
I had organized a tour of Detroit for the next day, and she and Silas were supposed to come. I wasn’t sure that he would want to after we’d gotten into that fight, though.
“What?” he asked when I suggested that idea to him the following morning. He put down the scary razor he used when he shaved but he still had a load of white cream above his beard. “Are you talking about what happened yesterday when we did the dishes? It wasn’t a fight.”
“No?”
“No. Come in here.” He pulled me into the bathroom before I had time to protest. “I was going to talk to you last night, but I didn’t want to bother Lyra.” She and I were sharing her room, since my parents had my bed and we’d all decided that the twosmallest people would do better together. She didn’t seem to mind me.
And speaking of sharing a space—
“This bathroom is small,” I said, because Silas and I were crammed close. “Why are you in here?”
“Your father is using my shower. It’s just a pan, so he doesn’t have to step into a bathtub to get in,” he explained, and I thought that was very nice. Maybe he had bad taste in women, but he didn’t have a problem giving up his bathroom to my dad, who needed it. “Have a seat.”
I did sit on the toilet lid, because that put an inch or two of space between us. “What did you want to say to me?”
“We’re not fighting,” Silas stated.
“Ok. I’ll see myself out of—”
“Camille, damn it! Are you still pissed at me?”
“No,” I said. “No, I’m really not. I was surprised yesterday. First I was mad, because I was thinking that you did the same thing to your girlfriends that Dax did to me.”
He put down the razor. “Don’t ever compare me to that piece of pickled herring.”
“I changed my mind,” I soothed. “I realized that it’s you and I who are alike.”
“We both enjoyed the cranberries your mom brought.”
“We both choose bad people to date,” I corrected. “We have bad taste.”
“I don’t,” he protested. “It’s a coincidence that three of the women I was with had to flee the country.”
“What?” I gasped. “Why did they have to do that?”
He shook his head as if he was frustrated. “You’re missing the point.”
“As far as I can see, the point is that you picked terrible people, you’re not the marrying kind, and there’s beard hair all over the bathroom that I use. Oh, you’re also bleeding!”
“Fuck,” he said loudly, at just the same moment that my mother knocked on the door.
“Excuse me,” we heard her say very clearly, and then both of us answered.
“Just a minute, Mom!” and, “I’m sorry, Belle.” We glared at each other.
“I’ll come back later,” she said. “No, Lyra! Don’t go into the bathroom without knocking, baby.”
