“The rug received a near-fatal vomit wound, but I think I can revive it.”
It startled her to see him smile. And sure, it was just this faint and trembling sort of thing, close to collapse. But it was there, and maybe if she carried on like this it would find some foundations. It would get stronger.
The question was—how to carry on like this with a famous person? What possible point of commonality could they have?
“Man,” he said. “You look as crazy as I feel.”
Chapter Two
She didn’t think badly of him. The truth was, shedidlook crazy. She was in her big old granddad’s nightshirt, and her hair still hadn’t completely grown in on one side. It had taken on an almost lopsided air, and when she caught a glimpse of herself in the bathroom mirror she saw that sleeping had exacerbated the situation.
Some of it was trying to escape off the left side of her head. She tried to smooth it back down when he wasn’t looking, but of course that only made things worse. Now her fringe was pointing skyward, and even more horrifying...
He’d definitely noticed her doing it.
He’d noticed her being weird and vain in the middle of helping him to his feet. And she couldn’t even explain, either, because how did you go about doing that? She couldn’t possibly say,You’re just so massive and impressive, and I’m so small and ridiculous. It was how she felt, but it didn’t really matter here.
Or at least, she thought it didn’t.
He seemed to think otherwise.
“Hey, I didn’t mean anything by that.”
“Oh no, I wasn’t—”
“Your hairiscrazy. But in a good way.”
“Is there a good way, for crazy hair?” she asked—mainly because this conversation was serving one purpose, at least. It was taking her mind off the hand she’d offered him, and the easy manner in which he’d taken it. Now she could feel his rough palm and his big fingers, and how little he seemed to care that he was holding on to her.
It wasn’t a big deal. It totally wasn’t a big deal.
He wasn’t that enormous, really.
“Sure—you ever seen a seventies rock chick?”
“Yeah, but I don’t think they’d thank you for comparing us. Pretty sure they never wear an old man’s nightshirt.”
He made the strangest sound, then. Like a chainsaw rubbing against a rusty knife. It took her a good ten seconds to realize it was meant to be a laugh, but even after she had she couldn’t fathom it. How had she managed to make that happen? She was barely functioning. She wasn’t even sure what she was saying—though maybe that was the idea. The less she thought about things, the more chance she had of improving his mood.
“Maybe not—but believe me, the hair’s dead-on.”
“I think this is all just code for your hair is a weird rectangle.”
He made that sound again, but it was better this time. Less like she needed to get him to a throat doctor fast. More like a normal human noise.
His efforts at moving, on the other hand...
“I think I’ve forgotten how to walk.”
“You haven’t forgotten. Your ability to walk is just sleeping. It’ll come back once I’ve sat you down on the couch and filled you full of warm drinks.”
He fell silent, then, for far too long a time. Didn’t he realize she needed this conversation, to help with the next step? He was practically leaning on her as she eased them both out the door, and he’d been right about the walking thing too. His legs were dragging in this weird way—one that made her think of CAT scans and other complicated hospital things that he might need.
Maybe he’d burst his brain. Maybe he was going to die in her arms.
Maybe he should just speak, before she went insane.
And then he did, and everything made even less sense than it had before.
