“Oh dear. All right, I’ll put it in the mail. By the way, why don’t you ever answer the cell phone I gave you?” she asked. “I’ve called it a half-dozen times and you never answer.”
“No phones allowed in the morgue,” she said as Myron ascended the stairs, munching determinedly on his sandwich and practically stepping on top of her as he passed.
“Convenient,” her mother said. “I need to go, honey. We’ll talk to you soon.”
Rachel hung up the phone just as Myron disappeared into the guest room. She got up, adjusted her towel, and followed him, watched him open the closet door.
“Myron?”
Myron paused, looked at her in the door, sort of squinting.
“You almost stepped on me coming up the stairs.”
“Sorry. Hey, I brought your phone back. It’s really cool, man”
Rachel’s eyes narrowed. “Are you stoned?” she demanded.
“Maybe a little,” he said, and looked in the closet.
Was there really such thing as a little stoned? Seemed to her that when Myron was a little stoned, he was wasted. Period. “What are you looking for?” she demanded as he took a huge bite of sandwich.
“Ah dummoh,” he said through the mouthful of bologna and closed the closet door, walked to the opposite end of the room, and looked at the nightstand. “Di ah eve iss ooo-ooo?”
“What?” she snapped irritably. “I can’t understand a word you’re saying!”
That made Myron laugh uproariously. But then he stopped abruptly when he almost choked on his sandwich, and swallowed it in one huge gulp. “Did I give this to you?”
“What?”
“The nightstand,” he said, motioning at the table with the last half of his sandwich.
“No.”
He squinted at the nightstand some more. Rachel sighed irritably and turned away. If he was going to do a lot of staring at furniture, she was going to go take her bath. “See you later, Myron. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”
“Wow,” Myron said, nodding. “That’s harsh.”
Whatever. Rachel left Myron standing in the guest room.
Her bath water was tepid now, so she drained the tub while she messed with her hair—trying new knots, because God knew she hadn’t tried every hair knot known to woman—and finally resorted to winding two big lumps on top of her head, Mickey Mouse style, as per usual.
She started her bath again, and when she was content with the temperature, she plugged it, stood, and started to shut the door—but jumped a good foot in the air because Myron was standing in the door, his hands in his pockets, his eyes bloodshot from the pot.
“Jesus, Myron! Can’t you knock?”
“I did!” he protested. “But you were upstairs on the phone and didn’t hear me.”
“I meant now—never mind. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to take a bath.”
“Sure,” he said, nodding. But he didn’t move.
“Okay! If you’ll just back up and let me shut the—”
“So listen, Rachel. I’ve been doing some painting again.”
It was all Rachel could do to keep from groaning. Myron went through periods during which he fancied himself a painter.
“Is it okay if I put some of them here? I don’t have room in my apartment.”
“Sure. Just put them in the basement, will you? Nothing on the walls.”
“The basement? You want me to put my paintings in the basement?”
“Yes,” she said, resolutely. The last time she’d let him bring paintings over, he had taken it upon himself to hang a few. She wasn’t a great decorator, but they had been too awful even for her.
“Great,” he groused. “I go to the trouble to paint for you and that is the thanks I get?”
Oh right, like he cared what she thought of his paintings. “No, the thanks you get is a place to store them. Ta-ta, Myron!” she called, and waved him out of the bathroom. “Come back when you’re not stoned,” she added as she started to swing the bathroom door shut.
Muttering under his breath, Myron backed up, banged into the doorjamb, and grabbed it to steady himself on the way out. But then he stopped, looked over his shoulder at her. “What about the other paintings? What did you do with them?” he demanded.
“Oh those!” she said. “I threw them away.” And with that, she shut the door.
On the other side of the door, she heard Myron laugh. And then gasp, “That’s hilarious!”
She locked the door, lit her candles, and crawled into the steaming water to read what her medieval knight was up to today. Saving the woman he loved from a burning castle, apparently. Wouldn’t it be nice if he could come around and save her from the bungalow?
After reading awhile, Rachel closed her eyes, felt the hot water and bubbles sliding over her body. She saw Flynn’s face peering down at her in her mind’s eye, only he had long, shoulder-length wavy hair. And he was wearing leather. Lots of leather. And there was deep concern etched into the fine lines around his gray eyes, that lock of hair falling across his brow . . .