“I wouldn’t have had to if you’d listened to me.”
The siblings glared at each other, frowns eerily alike.
I murmured, “Hey. It’s okay. Thank you.”
Cheyenne pushed up off the couch, displacing Eb’s head.
When he didn’t get off with her, I pointed at him. “Down. You know the rules. You have lots of soft dog beds.” His fondness for digging with his nails before lying down had ruined two couches before I’d reluctantly decided I needed to make that a rule. I definitely didn’t want him to destroy Brooklyn’s stuff. “Get down. Don’t think it’s okay just because you can con Cheyenne. I don’t want you learning bad habits.”
“Sorry,” Brooklyn said. “I did tell her, but I guess she forgot.”
“She might’ve been too busy cooking dinner to listen.” Cheyenne flounced off, at least as much as a teenager could flounce while wearing blue jeans, throwing over her shoulder, “I worked on dinner for an hour. Are you coming to the table?”
I really wasn’t sure if my stomach could handle food, but I didn’t want to make her think her effort wasn’t appreciated. When Brooklyn tilted his head in enquiry at me, I muttered, “Sure.”
“I fed the dogs,” he added, waiting for me to pass before following close at my side.
“Thank you.”
“Couldn’t find Xandra.”
“She was in with me. I’ll get her food later.” She needed her med with her dinner, but waiting half an hour wouldn’t kill her, even if she’d guilt trip me.
In the kitchen, Cheyenne had set the table for three. She bent over the oven, potholders in her hands. As we approached, she pulled a casserole dish out. “It’s tuna-noodle casserole. I made?—”
The smell of cooked fish hit me like a punch to the stomach. I gagged, pivoted, and staggered down the hall to the bathroom.
I had no time to close the door, so I could hear Brooklyn say, “That was the last can of the cat’s tuna, for her medication.”
“Well, how would I know that?” Cheyenne’s voice rose. “And now my cooking makes Arthur puke. I swear, I tried, okay? I just wanted to be helpful.” She reached a full-voiced shout. “You have to tell me shit!”
“Don’t say shit.”
“You’re not my mother!”
“Keep your voice down, Chey!”
“I’m not Chey, and screw you too. If you don’t want me here, just say so. I can hitch somewhere else.” Stomping footsteps down the hall were followed by the slam of her door.
I winced and clung to the toilet, but having rebelled once, my stomach seemed more settled. I straightened and cupped water in the sink to splash on my face. I hated hearing them fight. Especially since it was all my fault. Without me, they could’ve been watching a movie and planning to share a nice dinner. Now they were screaming at each other, and Cheyenne was talking about risking her safety again.
Behind me, Brooklyn said, “Sorry about that. She didn’t mean to make you feel bad.”
“Of course not.” I rinsed my mouth too, and added, “Probably a good thing I’m moving out, though.”
“You’re what?”
“Moving out. This was only temporary. I mean, I really appreciated it, more than I can say. But I talked to Shane today, and he asked me to stay at his place. To, um, look after his plants. I promised I would, now my leg’s healing. Theo knows a cab driver who’ll give me a deal on rides to the shelter in the mornings.” I was lying through my teeth by now.
“But I don’t mind.”
“No, seriously, this is good timing. You and Cheyenne need some space without a stranger around, to get to know each other again and figure out her issues.”
“You’re not a stranger.”
“I am to her.” To Brooklyn too, really. It’d only been what, ten days? It might’ve felt like we’d known each other forever, but that wasn’t objective reality. “I meant to pack earlier, but my headache slowed me down.”
“You didn’t say anything.” In the mirror, Brooklyn’s face over my shoulder looked sad. Even hurt.
