Repeat(28)

Turns out, neither does Gordon. I finish up in the kitchen and turn out the lights. Brush my teeth, put on my pajamas, and get comfortable on the futon. Fortunately, Gordon is a very good dog and doesn’t hog more than his half. It’s nice not to be alone.





Chapter Six


As a peace offering, I make Ed a thermos of hot coffee and leave it sitting on the kitchen counter. Since I don’t know how he takes his coffee, I don’t put in any milk or sugar. No idea what time he gets out of bed, either. Perhaps he’s in there, listening to my footsteps, waiting for me to leave. Though he might also be fast asleep, completely unconcerned with me and not planning on waking up for hours yet. Gordon, meanwhile, is curled up on his designated dog bed over by the couch being absolutely no help. He’s already been outside for a short walk so he could pee on the local flora and is now ready for a nap. With around twenty hours of beauty sleep a day, no wonder he looks so good.

I should probably leave Ed a note explaining not only the lack of dairy and any sweetening additions to the brew, but also what time I made it. It would be a nice touch.

Problem is, I don’t seem to own a pen. The guy who robbed me really took everything that made me who I was. Memory. Phone. Handbag.

My cool new library-card-style cotton tote (got it from work) doesn’t contain much. Money, cell, lip balm, and a book. The book is a fantasy this time, Uprooted by Naomi Novik.

But yeah . . . about that pen.

None in the kitchen drawers or lurking around the table and mostly tidy countertop. His art supplies include a case of pencils, though they look both special and expensive. I doubt he wants me using them to write silly notes.

The only place left I can think of is the desk in the spare room. Nothing on the top apart from a couple of folders filled with bills and receipts. A slither of guilt warns me against going through his shit, but my intentions are pure. I’m not reading up on his financials or anything. His privacy is mostly being maintained. I just want to leave him a note, and it is my temporary room, and he did tell me to make myself at home.

Time’s a-wasting, and I’m due at work. My kingdom for a pen.

In the top drawer are scissors, tape, some Post-its, an eraser, and—gasp, oh yes, at long last—a couple of pens. One looks crusty and about ten years dead. I test the second against the palm of my hand and bingo. We’re good to go.

Only, wait . . . an old, slightly worn, small blue velvet box sits near the back of the drawer. Half hidden from sight.

Without thought, I lift it out, carefully cracking the lid.

“Holy shit,” I mutter.

Because there, sitting on a bed of white satin, is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Jewelry-wise, at least. It’s white gold with a round diamond and decorative metal lacework. Antique, obviously. An engagement ring, equally as obvious. It’s sweet and pretty and all of the things I’m not.

“Give me that.” Ed snatches the jewelry box out of my hand, his jaw set. He’s only wearing loose sleep pants—and holy shit, his chest. So much skin and ink. Half-naked Ed is wildly distracting. Lots of unhappy on his face, however. “The fuck were you doing going through my things?”

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t spying or anything; I was just looking for a pen,” I say, holding up my graffitied hand. “See?”

“What the hell . . . to draw on yourself?”

“To leave you a note to go with the coffee I made you.”

He just shakes his head, the box gripped tight in his fist. “Just stay out of my things.”

“O-of course. Sorry. Again.”

The man about-faces, heading straight toward the bathroom. I wisely do not say another word as he slams the door shut.

After this, I go to work. Kind of, sort of wondering if the locks will be changed by the time I return. It might be for the best.



*



“If sorting it out in bed isn’t an option, then filling his stomach is always your next best bet.”

I wince. “I don’t know. It was making him coffee that got me into this mess.”

“No, it was sticking your nose where it had no business being that got you into this mess,” says Iris, sounding far surer and wiser than I.

“But—”

“You were just looking for a pen. Yes.” She clucks her tongue. “And when you found the pen, did you stop looking? No, you did not. Now go over to the recipe section and get busy.”

“I feel judged.”

“I don’t know,” says Frances, sipping coffee on the couch. “Seems like she kind of has a point there.”

I just flip her the bird.

“Real mature, Clem.”

“What if I buy him something?” I ask.

“Why don’t you try making something with your own two hands?” asks my sister. Two against one isn’t fair. “Invest some time and effort into your apology.”

With a heavy sigh, I sit on the floor in front of the cookbooks. “Who do you think the ring was for, anyway? I mean, I doubt it was for me, right?”

After a minute or so of silence, I finally look up to find them both gazing at me with wonder. Maybe a little horror too.

Iris just blinks. “Honey, you cannot possibly be that stupid. Tell me you’re not.”

“Maybe they hit her harder than we realized,” says Frances.