Bobby looked up.
Waving the plate at him, I demanded, “Are you kidding me?”
“What is—”
“Bobby, it’sneverFox’s turn.Theyneverdo the dishes.They never do anything!”
With a frown, Bobby seemed to think about this.“They don’t live here.”
“No, but that didn’t stop them from claiming the really good armchair in the billiard room under, quote, ‘permanent shotgun law.’They’re here all the time.Theypracticallylive here.They eat dinner here almost every night.”
Bobby turned off the water.He considered me.“And you think they should take a turn at doing the dishes.”
“Yes, I do.I think it’s only right and fair and—”
“Right?”
“Equitable,” I snapped.(Although yes, Ihadbeen about to sayrightagain.)
“Okay,” Bobby said.
I waited for the other shoe to drop.Bobby was going to make me clean the chimney instead.Or I was going to have to sweep the floor.Or Fox and I were going to have to do the dishestogether.
But he didn’t say anything.
“Okay?”I finally asked.
“Okay,” Bobby said.“Tell Fox it’s their turn to do the dishes.”
My.jaw.dropped.
Again.
“What?”Bobby asked.
“I can’t!”
“Why not?”
“Because I hate conflict!”
The expression on Bobby’s face suggested that he might possibly wish I hated conflict a little more—say, in this particular moment.But all he said was “Mm-hmm.”
“You know I don’t like to make waves.”
“Okay.”
“I’m not a complainer, Bobby.I’m too easygoing.I just want to go with the flow.”
“Right.”
I imagined my eyes as lasers.
Finally he said, “You wantmeto tell them?”
“Yes, God, thank you.You’re the best, Bobby.You’re amazing.This is why I love you.”
“I love you too, babe, but why should I be the one to tell them?”
