“I thought they were your fuel to help you stay focused while you wrote.You ate most of a batch while you were, quote, ‘deep in revisions.’”
“They can be two things!”I drew a deep breath.“Who ate them?I’m not mad.I just want to punish them.”
“Is that right?”Fox asked.
“Was it you?”
“Is your eye twitching?”
“Fox!”
“It wasn’t me!Good Lord, Dash, you’re acting like a junkie.”
“But you know who took them.”
“Tell me more about this punishment.”
“Fox, I swear to God.”
They offered a crooked little smile.“The only person I’ve seen in here was dear old Deputy Delicious.He’d just gotten back from a run, and you know how that burns calories.”
The shock of this betrayal was so great that I barely noticed when Fox sauntered away.Bobby?MyBobby?
I knew that, logically, Bobby had to have some sort of flaw.I mean, no one was perfect.Icertainly wasn’t perfect.And it wasn’t fair to assume that Bobby was perfect, even if he was strong and handsome and brave and patient and sometimes, when he was listening to music, he’d give me one of the earbuds so I could listen with him, and we could just listen, and it was like someone turned off the switches in my brain.And then turned on some new ones.
But a cookie thief?
I couldn’t believe it.
I wouldn’t believe it.
And yet…
He had told me that when he came back from his runs, he liked to get some carbohydrates.He’d drink a glass of chocolate milk with protein powder, for example.And even though Bobby didn’t have a sweet tooth like me, nobody could resist Indira’s baking.And maybe, just maybe, Bobby had assumed that because he and I were, well, close, I wouldn’t mind if he helped himself to my writing cookies.
That was it.That had to be it.
And that was a simple fix.An easy problem to address.I’d just say,Bobby, you’re the most important person in my life—
Uh.
No.
How about,Bobby, you’re my best friend—
But that might sound a little, well, pathetic.
Bobby, you’re my friend—
Nailed it.
Bobby, you’re my friend, and I love having you live at Hemlock House, but I think it’s important that we respect each other’s property.
That was a very good start.
I had the vague sense that Bobby might make an issue of his sweatshirts that I occasionally borrowed.But that was a different matter entirely.They weren’t consumables, for one thing.And even though Bobby was a little shorter than me, they still fit.And they had that super soft feeling from being worn and washed millions of times.And they smelled like his laundry detergent.And I liked it when someone asked me about my sweatshirt from, say, Powell’s, and before I could answer, Bobby said,It’s mine; he stole it, like it was just part of who we were.
Working my way along the main floor, I hunted for Bobby.Not in the billiard room.Not in the living room.I passed through the dining room, through the butler’s pantry, into the kitchen.And then I stopped.
