Page 21 of Hold the Pickle
His voice jolts me out of my concentration. “You’re overthinking.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.” There’s that grin again. “Say the next one that comes to mind.”
“I can’t?—”
“Come on.”
“Oh, okay. What’s the difference between a pickle and a therapist?”
The minute I start it, I’m swamped with regret. Not that one! Why did I say the worst one of all?
I wrack my brains to come up with a punch line that isn’t the real one.
“I don’t know,” Dalton says.
“Try,” I tell him, hoping to stall. I have to think of something. Pickles don’t have sofas? Pickles don’t charge by the hour? Oh, God!
“I really don’t know,” he says. “You’ve got me. What is the difference between a pickle and a therapist?”
I have to go through with it. I make it as deadpan as possible so he won’t think I purposefully brought up male anatomy again.
“If you don’t know the difference, stop talking to your pickle.”
He hesitates a moment, then laughs so hard and so long, I wonder if he’s gotten punchy from being tired.
“You got me,” he says. “Good one.”
I scoot off the bed. “I think you need to sleep.” I drag my blue comforter off the top so that he can use his.
“I didn’t think we’d have a conflict so soon.”
“We should have known there would be days off that lined up.” I fold up the bulky fabric and set it on the end of the sofa opposite from where he sits.
“I’m not taking your bed.” His voice is firm.
“I’m not taking it from a doctor working twenty-four-hour shifts!” I give him what I hope is a stern expression.
But when I get a good look, I can see the exhaustion that he’s hiding. It’s in the creases around his eyes, the way he pushes his hair off his forehead.
I have to do something. “Besides,” I say airily. “I’m about to go out. It’s a Friday night, and I’m meeting girlfriends.”
“Oh?” This surprises him.
“Yes, we get all dressed up and hit the clubs.”
“At this hour?” It is almost nine.
“Nothing good happens before ten.” That used to be true when I was twenty-two. But during the rigors of grad school, I gave up my late nights.
His eyebrows knit together. “All right then.”
“I need to get an outfit and change. Then I’ll be out of your hair so you can sleep all you want.”
“Okay.”
I kneel by the bed and pull out the mid-sized bag. “Have we figured out the closet situation?” I ask. “I saw you took the bottom drawer of the dressers.”
