Page 96 of The Next Lie

“You did this all by yourself,” I tell him.

He yells again.

“I know. The stupidity is devastating.”

He does not try to escape. That is the part that gets me. He doesn’t scratch or claw…he just settles into the crook of my arm like a damp orange washcloth and lets the water hit both of us, trembling with outrage but apparently committed to the experience.

I rinse shampoo out of my hair one-handed while he glares at the wall and wails.

By the time I shut off the water, he has stopped screaming. He blinks up at me, soaking wet and furious, and I laugh again.

It feels dangerous. Good things usually do now.

I wrap him in one towel and myself in another, then carry him into the bedroom, where I spend five minutes rubbing him dry while he pretends he hates every second of it. He purrs the whole time, loudly, with a liar’s conviction.

When he finally escapes, he bolts across the room, leaps onto the bed, and begins murdering the corner of my pillow.

“That tracks,” I tell him.

Getting dressed is less funny.

My clothing situation has become humiliating. I have one pair of clean jeans, several T-shirts I’m sick of looking at, a few pairs of leggings with suspicious holes in them, and a few borrowed items that make me look like I’ve stolen the men’s laundry basket. I pick the jeans and a snug black T-shirt because the alternative is wearing Shiloh’s hoodie for a third day in a row and giving him the satisfaction.

The jeans are tight over sore thighs, and I curse quietly while tugging them up.

Homer watches from the bed with judgment.

“You’re the one who fell in a shower.”

He licks his paw.

“Exactly.”

Downstairs, the house is already moving. Voices drift from the direction of the front hall. Low, male, controlled. None of them sound relaxed, which means either something is wrong or they are all awake.

With this group, those are usually the same thing.

Ever waits near the back door with two travel coffees and sunglasses hooked into the collar of his black shirt. His eyes drop to my damp hair, then to the jeans, then to my face. He does not smirk. Ever is too disciplined for smirking, but I can tell he remembers the gym floor because I remember the gym floor, and the memory is currently standing between us waving a red flag.

He hands me a coffee.

“You look better,” he says.

“I showered with a cat.”

His eyebrows lift.

“Against my will,” I add.

“I can’t imagine you wanting to shower with the cat...”

Shiloh appears behind him wearing dark slacks, a pale shirt open at the throat, and a crease between his eyebrows. He looks me over with sharper focus than usual. His attention catches on my shirt, my jeans, the wet ends of my hair, the old sneakers I have worn too many days in a row.

Then he smiles. That makes me frown.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing, my ever suspicious Yank.”