The Bodyguard (44)

“It’s not funny,” I said.

“I’m sorry,” he said, tumping over and pressing his face against the bedspread. “But it absolutely is funny.”

“Hey!” I said. “Nobody wants to see your underwear.”

“Actually,” he said, sitting back up and sobering his face. “People pay very good money to see my underwear.”

“Not your dirty underwear. On the bathroom floor!”

But he just gave a little trust me on this nod. “You’d be surprised.”

“Well,” I said, feeling like I needed to make this point. “I am not one of those people.”

“I know. It’s a thing I like about you.”

Was he trying to weasel out of picking up his mess by flattering me? I tried again. “Let me ask you this. Am I your maid?”

The more he tried to keep a straight face, the more his face seemed to fight with him. “We established that on day one.”

“Then let’s just agree that I won’t make you interact with my dirty underwear, and you won’t make me interact with yours. Okay?”

“Okay,” he said, trying to make his face serious. “Agreed.”

But now he had the giggles.

Jack Stapleton had the giggles.

He fell back down on the bed.

“Go,” I said, walking over to him and shoving at his shoulder to push him off the bed. “Go pick up your dirty clothes.”

He resisted for a second, so I pushed harder, and then, on purpose, he gave way fast and I fell onto the floor—landing on my sleeping nest.

Fine with me. It was time for bed, anyway.

“And don’t leave your toothpaste cap off, either,” I said. “What are you, five years old?”

“It’s my bathroom,” he said.

“It’s our bathroom now.”



* * *



BY THE TIME Jack came out, I’d already turned off all the lights, and he tripped over me making his way back to his bed.

“Watch it!”

“Sorry.”

He climbed under his covers and hung his head over the side to talk to me like we were having a sleepover.

“You really can sleep in the bed, you know.”

“No, thank you.”

“It’s bothering me that you’re on the ceramic tile.”

“Get over it.”

“We could build, like, a wall of pillows down the middle as a barrier.”

“I’m good.”

“What if my mom walks in and sees you sleeping on the floor?”

I hadn’t seen his mom since we’d been here. “Does your mom just walk into the bedroom of her adult son without knocking?”

“Probably not. Good point.”

“And even if she did, we could just say we were fighting. Which is true.”

“We’re not fighting,” Jack said. “We’re playing.”

“Is that what this is?”

The moon came out from behind the clouds and the room lightened a bit. I could see Jack’s face above me. He was still looking down.

“Thank you,” he said then.

“For what?”

“For coming here and doing this, even though you didn’t want to. And for not drowning today. And for wearing that ridiculous nightgown.”

I turned on my side to ignore him, but I could still feel him watching me.

After a while he said, “I really do have nightmares, you know. Apologies in advance if I wake you.”

“What should I do if you have one?” I asked.

“Just ignore me,” Jack said.

So much easier said than done. “I will absolutely try my best.”





Fifteen


JACK WAS GONE when I woke up the next morning—his empty bed a tangle of sheets and blankets, as if he’d spent the whole night scuba diving in there.

Where was he? It clearly stated in the handout that he was supposed to stay with or near me at all times. He wasn’t supposed to just sneak out while I was sleeping.

I got dressed—jeans and boots this time—and went to look for him.

In the kitchen, instead of Jack, I found his mom and dad.

Being adorable.

His mom was sitting at the table in a chenille robe, and his dad was across the room, wearing his wife’s floral apron, standing at the stove, burning bacon. Smoke everywhere. The stove fan running in a too-little-too-late way, and this big man flapping his ruffled hem helplessly at the whole situation.

Should Connie Stapleton be laughing like that? It was the first time I’d seen her since the surgery. Was that safe for her stitches?

Granted, she was more subdued than he was.

I mean, now Doc Stapleton was doubling over at the waist.

He took a minute to collect himself. Then he lifted the charcoal-black strips out of the skillet and brought them to his wife, well aware that bacon was supposed to be a whole different color.

“I blame the stove,” Doc said.

“Me too,” Connie said, patting the back of his hand.

Then, with remarkable generosity, she broke off a blackened piece, put it in her mouth, and said, “Not bad.”

As if burnt bacon really got a bad rap.