It only depressed her more, because (and she had failed to mention this to Mabel), Flynn wasn’t living his dream. He’d obviously been appalled by her declaration of love. And now there was a nice, normal guy who liked her, and all she could think of was Flynn.
It was enough to make even the most practical of people insane, and by the time Rachel arrived home, she wanted nothing more than to devour a giant pan of warm brownies and take a hot soaking bath.
Unfortunately, Myron was there. She groaned as she got out of her car, as he was definitely the last person she wanted to see today. But as she entered her house through the kitchen door—the quickest route to avoid any encounter with Mr. Valicielo—she gasped, dropped her bag.
Her house was a wreck. Drawers were pulled out, crap was stacked on the breakfast bar, and the refrigerator door was standing wide open.
She dropped her bag, marched into the dining room where she found more of the same—stuff stacked everywhere, drawers and cabinets open and the contents jumbled. And as she stood there, her mouth agape, trying to make sense of it all, Myron came trudging up the stairs from the basement. “Oh. Hey,” he said when he saw her.
“Hey? That’s all you’re going to say?”
“What?”
“God, Myron!” she exclaimed angrily. “Look at my house! Look what you’ve done to my house!”
Myron looked around. “Oh, man. I didn’t realize,” he said stupidly, and she realized he was stoned again.
“This is unreal!” she cried, and whirled around, went into the kitchen, slammed the fridge door shut. “I asked you to please call before dropping by. Do you think I exist to feed you and clean up after you? What sort of friend are you?”
Myron followed her. “Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I was making a mess!” he shouted at her. “But you have something of mine and I can’t find it!”
“I have something of yours? And that’s a reason to trash my house?”
“It’s a painting of a colonial woman. Small, like an eight by ten. What did you do with it?” he demanded.
Now she was pissed. Huge, steam-out-of-the-ears pissed. “Don’t shout at me,” she said through gritted teeth. “I don’t know where your stupid painting is, I don’t care about your stupid painting. I’ve let you store them here because I thought we were friends, but you have taken advantage of my friendship long enough. I want my key back, right now.”
“Listen, Rachel, you have to remember,” he said, sounding a little desperate now. “I have to find it!”
There was a look in his eyes she didn’t like, and she turned away, slammed a knickknack drawer shut. “I don’t know where it is. You have to remember.”
“Fuck,” Myron muttered, and stared at the floor for a minute. “FUCK!”
“All right, it’s time for you to go,” Rachel said, and pointed toward the door.
“I have to find that goddamn painting!” he roared. “Do you not understand? I HAVE TO FIND THAT PAINTING!”
“You’re stoned,” she said disgustedly. “Look around you! It’s obviously not here! You’ve turned my house upside down and it’s not here! I want you to go, Myron. I want you to give me the key and leave my house and not come back. You’re stoned and you’re rude, and you’re—”
“Shut up, Rachel,” he said nastily, and tossed her key onto the breakfast bar and stalked to the door. “Just shut the fuck up,” he said again, and kicked the door open and went out.
Her instincts told her to lock the door, and she raced behind him, slamming the door shut and locked it, then ran to the front to lock that one, too. The phone began to ring as she watched Myron back out of her driveway at breakneck speed, almost colliding with her car as he did.
She grabbed the phone up without looking at the caller ID, her eyes still on Myron. “Hello,” she said, walking to the window again.
“Rachel?”
His voice was an injection of calm into chaos, and she closed her eyes, drew a breath. “Flynn,” she whispered.
“I . . . I hadn’t thought I’d get you. I’ve been trying to reach you without much luck. Have the time to chat a bit?”
“Ah . . .” She paused, looked out the window. Myron was definitely gone.
“Bollocks,” he muttered low, and before she could explain, he said, “At least allow me to say a couple of things, will you? Beginning with how dreadfully sorry I am for yesterday. Something cropped up that I couldn’t extract myself from, and I—”
“I know, so your message said,” she responded, forgetting Myron. “Could you not find a phone?”
“Yes, I could find a phone . . . but for reasons I cannot fully explain as of yet, I could not call you—”
“Flynn—”