Half-mirrored now. Well, three-quarter mirrored, with an irregular dead patch on one wall that I’d created with Grand-mère’s Chippendale plant stand. Torn between satisfaction and embarrassment, I went over to inspect the damage. As I touched what looked like duct tape on a cracked section, I heard footsteps approaching, so I was half-expecting his voice. “You gonna go postal on that some more? Because if so, you should bring a dustpan with you. And Band-Aids.”
“I might’ve done enough damage.” I turned. Like that first time, I barely got an impression of him, lean height and amused voice in the dimness.
“Ya think?”
“Where’s the cat? Mimsy?”
“Lazing around in a patch of sunlight. Couldn’t be bothered to come downstairs.” The guy tilted his head and folded his arms. I really wanted to see his expression. “What brings you back here?”
You?I said, “It’s a free country.”
“Not really.”
“Free-ish. Anyhow, I’ve as much right to be here as you.” I allowed myself a little amusement as I added, “Maybe more.”
“Hah. If you’re looking for shit to steal, there ain’t much.”
“Because you already hocked it all?”
“I’m not a thief.” He took a step back and I regretted teasing him. “I figure they cleared the place out before they boarded it up. Mostly. There’s a few chairs and crap like that.”
I didn’t point out that the Chippendale plant stands would bring plenty of cash, even if I’d scratched the edge on one of them. Whoever cleared the place must not have known what they were. “I’m not here to steal anything.”
“A place to crash, then? It’s big enough for both of us. I have dibs on upstairs, but there’s a ton of space down here, three different bathrooms and all. You got a bedroll?”
“I’ll get by.”
“Well, I’m not sharing mine.”
“Not asking you to.”
“Okay, then. You smoke? I don’t want the place burning down.”
“No.”
“Really?” He sounded surprised. “Okay, that’s cool.”
“What’s your name?” I figured asking now sounded natural.
“Shane. What’s yours?”
From some corner of my brain still reeling from being here, the answer emerged as, “Thibault.” I quickly corrected, “Call me Theo.”
“Thibault.” Shane pronounced my name Tee-bo, missing the twist of the vowels and the sibilance on the Th. “What kind of name is that?”
“My kind.” I sighed. “It’s French.”
“Is that what your accent is?”
I recoiled. “I don’t have a fucking accent.”
“Yeah, you do. Just a hint. I like it.”
“I was born right here in California.” After I left my grandparents and that pretentious house, I’d worked to lose any hint of that past. No one had commented in years.Is it this place? Am I backsliding?
“I bet there’s lots of folks born here with accents. Mostly Spanish, of course.”
I gave up the infuriating argument. “Where are you from?”
