But Ian was right. The timing was total shit.
“You’re fucked,” Ian assured me.
“Thanks.”
“Well,” he said with a yawn, “me and Miro will be here however it shakes out.”
“I appreciate that.”
“I’m gonna go home and eat now. Lemme know what you find out tomorrow.”
And before I could thank him or say good night or goodbye or anything, he was heading for the door. I wasn’t at all surprised.
“I appreciate you,” I called after him.
“Fuck off,” he answered, and I heard the door open and then close, automatically locking behind him.
I couldn’t make him up; no one would ever believe me.
Two hours later,Cel sat up on the couch, looking like he’d slept for a month instead of hours. The fact that only one of his eyes was open and his hair was a mess was adorable.
“What smells so good?”
“It’s the eggplant parmesan,” I replied, confused. “Isn’t that what you said you wanted?”
“No, you said that because I was hiding out like—you know what, never mind. I’m coming to the table after I pee.”
“Thanks for the update,” I muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing,” I said as he limped across the room and started down the hall. Because he put so many demands on his body, he often woke up in a crumpled ball and it took a minute for his stride to become fluid again. “Do you want wine or water or—”
“I want wine!” he yelled before slamming the bathroom door.
He always woke up grumpy, which I found terribly endearing, probably because my mother was like that too. My father used to warn me not to talk to her first thing in the morning. He would just slide the coffee across the counter to her and not speak until spoken to. Same when she got up from a nap. Now, if I was over, I’d pour her a glass of ice water and wait until her anger at being awake balanced out with her usual kind demeanor.
I didn’t set the table; that wasn’t us. I put his plate and wine in the middle of the island on the side with the four barstools. I stood up in the kitchen across from him. When he appeared, I saw him stop suddenly, staring at me.
“What?” I asked him. “You look weird.”
“I just—what are you wearing?”
I looked down at the white T-shirt and old jeans and then back up at him. “Stuff I always wear. Why?”
“I’ve never seen you wear anything so old and…tight.”
“Oh yeah, I need to do laundry,” I told him. “I’m down to non-work clothes that have seen better days.”
Cel nodded, somehow missed the barstool, and was suddenly gone from sight.
“Oh shit,” I said, darting around the island to find him sprawled on the floor. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” he said breathlessly, looking up at me oddly.
“What’s with you?”
“I—nothing. I’m totally fine.”