She didn’t hear any grinding noises.
She was desperately glad she hadn’t broken him.
And then he frowned faintly. “Wait. You’re sorry about going up in theatticor about...”
“I’m sorry about needing to be rescued,” she said firmly. “I’m very sorry I inconvenienced you. I’m... sorry I squeezed your neck and pulled your hair.”
Why did their conversations always devolve into something that sounded like an exchange between two kids on the playground?
“It’s very soft,” she added. Lamely. “Your hair.”
His expression teetered somewhere between hilarity and censure.
“I think your cheek says ‘Skechers,’” she said, quietly, when he didn’t seem inclined to speak.
He swiped at his cheek absently. He missed the “S” completely. She didn’t say anything. He’d get around to noticing it eventually. If she was a guy who looked like him she’d be looking in the mirror all the time.
“I’m a little stiff from working on the wallpaper. Otherwise my balance would have been a little better.”
“Yeah?” he said abstractedly.
She nodded silently. Like a shy three-year-old.
“Hey, where’s your guard dog?” he asked.
“Chick Pea,” Avalon called. Then louder, “CHICK PEA!”
A few seconds later, they heard theclick-click-clickof tiny nails progressing sedately through the hall. Chick Pea trotted merrily into the room, smiling a doggie smile and went straight to Avalon, the very picture of blissful obliviousness.
She bent down to scratch her head. “I think she might be a little deaf.”
She glanced up at Mac. Judging from his silence and his expression, he was expending significant internal effort to refrain from saying something. “I told you so.” Or something in that vein.
She kept her face down. The silence elongated.
“Simon Le Bon. John Bonham. Janis Joplin. Sarah Vaughan. Robert Plant. Bob Marley. Baba O’Riley.”
She levered her head slowly up in amazement.
He’d recited these names almost defiantly. It sounded like he was reading a list of war dead.
“What...” She wondered if she’d damaged her hearing or her brain in the stair crash.
“Those are thenamesof my goats.”
She stared at him. A flush painted her to her hairline.
“Say them in a goat voice in your head,” he urged.
Simon Le Baaaan, John Baaaanham, Janis Jaaaaaplin, Sarah Vaaaaughan, Raaabert Plant, Baaaaab Marley... Baaa Baaa O’Riley.
Wow, that washilarious.And touching. Vivid and so... so him.
Shame made her face go even hotter. She’d accused him of not caring about anything. It was a fairly terrible thing to say to anyone. It had been calculated to hurt him, to jar him into some sort of truth or revelation.
It had worked, though. If she were being scrupulously honest with herself, she wasn’t entirely sorry.
“They’re very good names,” she said, quietly.
