Brinley shrugs. “He needs a home. And he’s entertaining most of the time. And…he’ssometimeskind of…loving even. A little.”
“I doubt that,” I mutter. I play back the scene in my head and chuckle. “That was ridiculous.”
Brinley laughs too. “I know.Andhilarious.”
I join her in laughter. Since the fresh little wounds aren’t stinging nearly so much, the humor is coming in clear. “What did I say about inertia?” I ask, recalling the frantic fear pulsing through me.
Brinley drags in a breath through fresh laughter. “Oh my gosh, that it wouldrip out chunksof your flesh.”
“I’m surprised it didn’t.” I shake my head, wondering if Marsha Langston knew how crazy that cat was before letting it on the show. It would probably only encourage the woman all the more.
Brinley plops onto the sofa as our laughter dies down. “Oh, man, that was something else.”
“Yeah.” I join her on the opposite end of the couch with a hard thud that does anything but soften the recent blow to my butt. “Ouch, what is this thing made of—porcelain?”
“Seriously,” Brinley says through a residual laugh. “I think it knocked the wind out of me as I sat down.” She rests an elbow along the back of the couch, positioning herself toward me. Our eyes meet, and this time…this time shefinallyholds my gaze.
A thrill of heat pulses through me as I take in the familiar expression on her face. I’ve seen this one a thousand times. It’s one of my favorites. She pulls this expression after making a snide remark or being the recipient of a similar jest. If her eyes were just a bit wider, it’d be the look she gives me in amusement when someone just stuck their foot in their mouth, something that’s easy to do in a world where everyone’s trying to impress someone.
The corner of her lip lifts the slightest bit, and her eyes narrow just enough to speak on their own. “Stop,” she says, voice playful.
“Stop what?”
She drops her gaze to the sofa and runs her finger along the crease. “Stop reading me.”
“No,” I say, and we both laugh again. “Sorry. I just…miss you.” I gulp, realizing that part just slipped out. But it’s true.Oh, so true.
Brinley presses her lips together, looking bashful suddenly. It’s a new look on her, and it makes me wonder, once again, if she’s lost some of her spunk, sass, or confidence. If so, I’ll make it my life’s mission to see that she gets it back.
The welcome basket on the coffee table catches my eye, and I lean over to grasp it with both hands. It’s as heavy as it looks, loaded with goodies like crackers, cheese, olives, and jam.
“Dark chocolate?” Brinley says as I set it between us on the couch.
I spot the package she’s referring to. “That one’s for me,” I say.
She giggles. “Oh, no you don’t. Youhatedark chocolate.”
I’m not willing to tell her that—after the breakup—I developed a taste for it, desperate to recall the taste of her first kiss. “I know I do,” I say anyway, “it’s all yours.”
“And those grody green olives are allyours,”she says, plucking the dark chocolate bar from its spot in the corner.
“Grody? That’s just rude.”
“Sorry,” she says, though her tone sounds anything but. She tears the corner of the package and snaps a wedge of chocolate off the bar. “So,” she says, bringing the piece to her lips. “Tell me what you’ve been up to. Aside from making movies and, you know, getting attacked by cats.”
I grin. “I’m not convinced that was an actual cat, but…I’d say my career’s kept me pretty busy the last two years,” I admit. “Especially with the documentary series I helped produce.” I consider elaborating but decide against it. While I want to share that side of me, to tell Brinley all about it and why it’s so important, I fear she’ll think I’m telling her so I can go to the Emmys.
“Let’s see,” I say, “I can’t think of anything I do outside of work besides pass out in front of the TV and stare at the screen, whether it’s off or on.”
She tips her head back slightly and crunches the remaining chocolate before dabbing her lips. “Here,” she says, motioning to the basket. “I’ll get you a fork for those olives.”
Brinley darts across the room and into the adjacent kitchen before I can tell her not to bother. She slides open a few drawers and shuts them again. “That sounds like me,” she admits while moving to the next drawer. “The passing out in front of the TV at the end of the day thing, I mean.” She opens, closes, then opens yet another drawer before gasping. She holds up a fork like it’s the World Cup and grins triumphantly. “Success!”
“That’s my girl,” I say. “How about a knife too? There’s a summer sausage in here that doesn’t look half bad.”
She reaches back into the drawer, then heads back with the utensils in her grip. “So on the occasions that the TV ison,”Brinley says as she sinks back onto the couch, “what might you be watching?” She hands me the fork and sets the knife on the coffee table.
“Sports, mostly.” It’s a knee-jerk response because, until recently, there wasn’t much else I watched. “But recently, I’ve branched out a little and watchedTime Warp. The um, high school reunion series.”
