“Not at the same time,” I repeat. “Because that would be…”
“A polyamorous relationship, which I’ve never done. I thought about it once.”
“You thought about it.”
“Are you going to keep repeating me?”
“It helps me understand you.”
“Why are you trying to understand me? I’m un-understandable. Everyone says so.”
“I have two undergraduate degrees, three graduate, and I’m working on my doctorate. There’s not a lot I don’t understand.”
“Oh.” She blinks owlishly at me, and I notice her lashes are long and full. “You’re smart.”
“Very smart.”
The door behind us opens suddenly, and I turn with difficulty to find Mrs. Gretchen standing there. She’s changed from her Coulson jersey to a pretty flowered dress. “You can’t just stand here all night,” she instructs. “You need to leave. You need to eat something. Take her to find food,” she says to me. “Feed him,” she says to Rachel.
“Which one?” Rachel asks.
“Either, both. But you can’t stand here.” Without another word, she shuts the door.
“Well, that was rude.” Rachel leans forward like she’s whispering but doesn’t lower her voice. “She’s the one who gets us drunk and then sends us home.”
“You got drunk very well on your own.” Mrs. Gretchen’s voice rings through the door.
Rachel giggles. “She’s so cool. She can hear through doors.”
For some reason I find that very funny, but my laugh fades as Rachel claps her hands.
“I made you laugh,” she says with delight.
“You’ve been making me laugh all night. Is this about me being uptight again, because there’s nothing tight about me right now. I’m also surprised that I’m still upright.”
Her face opens like a flower when she laughs. I could watch it for the rest of the night. “You made a funny,” she says with delight.
“It’s been known to happen.”
“I like that.”
We stand on the step for a long moment, staring at each other because I can’t turn away from her.
I try. It doesn’t work.
“So, Mrs. Gretchen said I should feed you.” Rachel finally breaks the quiet. When she blinks those green eyes at me, things go shaky again. “I have food. Want to come over and eat it?”
“No.”
“You don’t want to eat my food?” Disappointment replaces the delight on her face.
“Not in your house.” I need to stem the unhappiness as quickly. “I—I’m… Your cats. I’m allergic.”
“Oh.” Her face falls. “That’s sad.”
“You can come to my house. I don’t have cats.”
“That’s sad, too. Do you have wine?”
