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“Seriously?” Did he really shoot off a gun, scare the bejesus out of me, just to take a load off? “No one was there? There was no danger? No reason to shoot. You just pulled a maniac cowboy, went wild west, and popped off your gun?” I take a breath. “All because you were tired?”
He stirs cream into his mug. “Yes.”
“That’s not safe and you’re in charge of safety.” He’s the one who should be punished. A thousand thoughts and emotions run through my mind. Gun safety being at the forefront. My humiliation for coming running to save him being the strongest. “How did you know I would come back, that the gunshots wouldn’t make me run further into the woods, possibly getting lost?—”
He interrupts me with a cocky, “I knew you’d come back.” He slips back into his seat, sitting across from me.
“How?” I twist back to face him.
“We never leave a Bachman behind.” He holds my gaze for a beat. “I sensed you would do the same.”
Silence.
“You were right.” I look away, murmuring agreement. “Never leave a family member behind.”
“Exactly,” he says.
“Yep.” Our eyes stay connected, a knowing look passing between us. All Bachmans are loyal. But for some of us, the willingness, the loyalty, the current of undying devotion runs just a little bit stronger, deeper. “I guess we have that in common as well.”
“Yeah. We do.” He reaches out as if to put a tentative hand over mine before thinking better of it and drawing it back. “Look. Knowing you’d come back? It’s a compliment. I know you’re loyal. I would have done the same.”
“You shot a gun into the night because you were tired. I get it.” I drink my coffee, totally NOT getting it. Is this a man thing?
“Yeah.” He gives another guilty-looking neck rub. “There’s more.”
“What?”
“We could have gone back to the Hamlet to crash.”
“But you brought me here,” I say. “You said that you and security agreed it would be better.” I can’t remember his exact words, but he did say something like that, right?
“Technically, I am me and security. We don’t have the detail joining us until we leave for your trip. I made the decision myself.”
“Wow. I’m almost speechless. Except I’m not. Did you really do that? Shoot a gun. Drive us all the way back to the city?—”
He continues trying to defend his actions. “I just wanted to sleep in my own bed after the night we’d had. What was it? Midnight before the party even ended? And that was just the start of the night. I couldn’t face going back to that place.”
“That place? It was a comfy, safe bed only fifteen minutes from where we were. Instead, you hauled us all the way back here. Like an hour and a half drive.”
“Hey, you got to sleep in. If you’d been home, your mom would have had you up by eight to do stick-on nails or gluey eyelashes.”
“We don’t do stick-on nails. We go to a salon.” But he’s probably right. It would have been one of my last mornings in the house so I would have been up bright and early. “But I would have been in bed much earlier.”
“I am sorry for the gunshots. That must have been scary. And for not being more honest with you about why we came back here. But we needed to talk after you ran off into the woods.” He raises an eyebrow. ‘Did you really want to have that conversation at your parents’ house?”
I shudder, thinking of them hearing anything from what went on last night. I take a deep breath, forgiving him.
“Anyway,” I say.
“Anyway. More coffee?”
“Sure. Thank you.” He takes my mug from me and fills it with coffee and cream like before. “I hope my room wasn’t too horrible of a place to sleep. I knew we didn’t have to be back till four to get ready for your dinner.”
I thank him, taking the refreshed mug back. I dive into the bigger question. “What’s so bad about the Hamlet?” I think about why he might not like my home. He’s never dated anyone, not that I know of. Is he lonely? “Is it hard to be around families when you’re—” I think about his pictureless apartment. “Single?”
“No. God, no.” He gives a big belly laugh. The sound surprises me. I thought I was onto something. A psychologist detective. Now, he’s shaking his head. I’ve never seen him laugh so hard. Like he’s going to laugh so hard he’s gonna cry. He brings his hand to his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “God, no. The opposite.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
