“Have you never tasted Diet Coke before?”
He put his finger on the lid of the Coke. “Tis similar tae a cider?”
“Kinda, maybe?”
He picked it up and looked it over. “There is a cork?”
I pantomimed unscrewing the lid. “Unscrew the top.” Then I realized it would probably be hard to do it with one uninjured arm.
He put the pills in his mouth and chewed.
I grimaced. “It would be better to just swallow those, they tasteterrible.”
He grimaced. “Och, tis disgusting.” He put his tongue out with an ick sound, then put the bottle between his knees, clamped his hand on the top, and twisted.
He looked the lid over, then placed it down carefully on the tray, and lifted the bottle to his lips. He swigged and then spit-sprayed Diet Coke while trying to put the bottle down. He choked and coughed with tears welling up?—
“Are you okay?”
The bottle tipped, pouring all over the grass, making a puddle that quickly rolled down to his kilt and leg. He tried to get away from the puddle, but used his injured shoulder — he winced as his arm crumpled and he spasmed to hold it, moaning, “Och nae, twas…” He spit trying to get it out of his mouth. “Och nae, that is not…”
“You don’t like Diet Coke?”
He frowned, saying, “Nae, tis verra good, I thank ye.” He grimaced and tried to cover it with a fake smile.
“Will you stay there and eat your sandwich? I will go get you water, does that sound good?”
He nodded. And swallowed, then spit again, his face looking positively green.
I joggedup the lawn to my porch and returned to the kitchen. I got a large water bottle from the fridge and because I felt guilty for having given him a drink that somehow —how was it possible he never tasted a Diet Coke before?— I got a little bag of chocolate chip cookies for him.
I returned to the door, went out, and got all the way down the lawn to about seven feet away before I realized I had left the gun up on the kitchen counter.Dumb ass.
But at least now I had my hands free to open the lid of the water bottle so I wouldn’t have to explain that part, again —whyin the world did I need to explain how to open a soda bottle?And wouldn’t that suck on my gravestone:
Here lies Lexi, she didn’t have a gun but at least her hands were free.
I passed him the opened water bottle and he guzzled a quarter of it. Then he held the bottle up and admired it in the light. He poured a bit on his head and brushed his fingers through his shoulder-length hair, pushing it back from his face. He drank a bit more then put the bottle between his knees, picked up half the sandwich and took a bite. He closed his eyes, a smile spreading across his face as he chewed.
I asked, “I made it right?”
“This is the best thing that has happened tae me in days.” He took another big bite.
“Aw, that’s a nice thing to say, for that you get a cookie.” I placed the cookies down on the tray. He took another bite of sandwich, finishing off the half and picking up the other half, and a moment later he was done with the whole sandwich, brushing off his fingers. His eyes settled on the cookie bag. “What is it?”
“You have to open it.”
He picked up the bag, turned it over, dropped it onto the tray, yanked a knife from his belt. He held the bag still with two fingers of his injured arm, and started to stab it?—
I interrupted, “Let me help.”
I crouched beside him and ripped the bag open.
We were very close.
He raised his brow. “What kind of weapon was it ye carried, Mistress Lexi? Ye daena hae it on ye anymore?”
“Oh, what? Oh.” I scrambled up and away. “What are you… is that a threat?’
