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Mom melted under Row’s touch, patting his hand on her shoulder. “Oh, Ambrose, you sweet boy. Tell your mother I send her my regards.”
“Sorry she couldn’t make it. Still down with the flu.”
“That’s all right. I know Zeta always means well.”
He shook me off his shoulder and disappeared. People began swarming around me and Mom, offering hugs and words of encouragement before taking off to their griefless lives. I thanked them, my eyes frantically searching for Dylan in the room. She was nowhere to be found. Nor was her colorful windbreaker. She had probably taken off with Row. Did she still live at her parents’ old house? Surely Mom would know.
Once our living room emptied out, Mom closed the door, pressing her forehead to the wood with a shaky exhale. “I’m going to dash upstairs and change into something more comfortable and watch Crash Landing on You before we start cleaning this place up. I need to decompress.”
“Decompress away, Mamushka. I’ll do the dishes in the meantime.” I nodded, sashaying to our kitchen. I opened the door. Our kitchen was a charming thing, with slim shaker cabinets, copper pot rails, blue geometry wallpaper, and a farmhouse sink. It was quaint, lovely, and cozy.
If you didn’t include the beastly man that stood inside it, filling up the entire room.
“Please tell me you are an unfortunate hallucination caused by my lack of sleep.” I stepped into the kitchen in a daze. Row was there, washing the dishes at the sink like he wasn’t a famous, stunning human with pictures of him in a tux available for download on Getty Images.
Suds of soap coated his sun-kissed, veiny forearms. The black sleeves of his dress shirt bunched around his elbows, straining against his thick arms. He had tattoos. Two full sleeves of delicious ink. All culinary inspired. Knives, herb roots, and a human-looking pig in a chef apron butchering a piece of human flesh.
“You’re not hallucinating.” He frowned at a pan, trying to scrub a dry piece of potato and cheese from it. “This time, anyway.”
“What are you doing?” I glowered.
“The dishes. I thought it was self-explanatory.”
“Do you always do the dishes in people’s houses without asking?” I parked my hands on my waist, committed to being his bitter enemy. I wished we could be friendly. I really did. But Row had chosen war.
“It’s a fetish” came his lazy drawl. “Don’t tell Sheriff Menchin. He let me off on a warning last time.”
I fished my phone out of my dress’s pocket—yes, it was awesome and had pockets—pretending to punch in a call. “Hello? Nine-one-one? My emergency is an unwelcome guest who won’t leave.”
He ignored me, scrubbing dirty dishes with gusto.
“Seriously. I can take it from here. Kindly evacuate my premises.”
“Not your premises.” Row slid a sparkling roasting pan into the rack by the sink.
“Excuse me? Yes, they are.”
“Is that what the deed says?” He picked up a dirty plate from the water-filled sink, leisurely scrubbing.
“It’s what my mouth says.”
“Your mouth just spent forty minutes talking about Meat Loaf.” He scowled at the bubble-coated plate he was cleaning. “It’s obviously only good for one thing, and that thing ain’t an appropriate topic for conversation.”
“You’re unbelievable!” I screeched.
“You’re incoherent,” he slapped back.
“I don’t know why I gave you my virginity.”
“If it makes you feel any better, I think I deserved it even less than that Grammy.”
Right. I almost forgot. Row had managed to win a Grammy for rapping for five seconds in a song by a famous artist. Screw him and his rock-star lifestyle. The most glamorous place I’d ever been to was the first-class lavatory on a plane to Dallas, and even that was because I’d had to bypass the angry flight attendant to projectile vomit.
Leaning against the wall, I folded my arms over my chest. “I see Staindrop has caught up with your personality finally.”
He grunted in response, too busy wrestling a lasagna stain from the plate to pay attention to me.
“What did you do?” I demanded.
