“Take as long as you need to,” émile says. The door clicks shut behind him.
Mrs. Thackeray speaks again. This time her voice is imperious and commanding. All the sugar has melted away.
“You may begin. These boxes must be taken downstairs to the truck parked on the street,” she says. I get the feeling she’s used to having people practically salute when she speaks.
“Sure,” Gavin says. Then he turns to me. “I like your hair. It looks good.” Is he being sarcastic? I feel my face flush and am grateful that the lighting in the room is barely adequate.
I could bail, but I don’t. What would I tell émile and Sylvie? What would Mrs. Thackeray say to them? My biggest fear is Thomas. What if he makes an appearance?
I swallow, find my feet, and breathe. I have to chill! It’s to my advantage that I’m not alone. I may not like having Gavin around, but his presence is reassuring. So I’m actually glad he’s here. Weird.
Gavin grabs a box, and I do the same and follow him back to the door, throwing a glance in the old lady’s direction. I can tell she’s staring at us, even though her face is shadowed. I hear another of her wheezy chuckles. My blood starts to simmer.
If that’s how you want it, lady, game on.
Except I don’t understand what the game actually is in the first place, but it’s got to have something to do with the empty apartment. Do they know I just took one of the paintings?
We clomp down the stairs. My box is full of yellowed underwear and stained socks. The smell of old sweat and moth balls makes my stomach curl around my breakfast. Gavin gets so far ahead of me that I can’t catch up with his long-legged gait until we’re nearly outside.
“What you doing here?” I blurt at him when I reach him. My face flames when I realize I’ve left out a word. Gavin doesn’t notice.
“My Dad and Valerie,” he says, putting his usual sarcastic emphasis on his Mom’s name, “told me that I needed to come by and apologize to you.” He shoulders his way through the main doors and dumps his box onto a moving van parked on the street. Then he turns back and stares at me with his arms folded, leaning against the van.
“So, I’m sorry,” he says. His mouth is in a tight line and his body is tense.
I stare at him for two reasons. One is that out here in the morning sunlight, I can clearly see his face. And his eyes aren’t mocking, they aren’t calculating. More than anything, they look sad. Two, he shouldn’t be the one to apologize. Not really. It was his Mom who made everything so humiliating and horrifyingly awkward the other night. It was Valerie’s fault.
“I,” I start to say, then freeze. How do I tell him any of this? How can I get the right words out? I can’t. I grimace and bite my lip, trying to think of what to say.
Gavin drops his gaze and sighs. “Whatever,” he mumbles. Then he lopes back over to the front doors and disappears inside.
People don’t realize how fast you have to talk to have a conversation. Jumbles of sounds fly out of your mouth in rapid succession and it’s all totally automatic. I mean, it just happens and you don’t even think about it. Unless you’re someone like me.
When you have to consciously think about every single thing that’s going to come from your lips, and never know if it will even come out right, talking is torture.
Communication is almost impossible.
I growl and follow Gavin. I don’t want him to get ahead so that we’re not in the apartment at the same time.
When we arrive at Mrs. Thackeray’s home, Gavin opens the door for me. And his words shock me so that I stumble and nearly fall.
“Yeah, ice cream sounds great, Rosemary,” he says in a loud voice as we enter. “But why don’t we pack a lunch and head to the beach, first? It’s a great day for a picnic.”
He grabs a box and sprints out the door before I can answer. I snatch an armful of old coats and follow, fuming. Mrs. Thackeray is still perched on the sofa. Her feet dangle a few inches above the floor, making her look like some evil little troll child. I steal a glance at her as I pass. She’s smiling. I stifle the urge to throw something at her head and stomp out into the hall.
Each time Gavin and I return to the apartment, he makes sure he gets ahead of me and announces something else as he opens the door.
“I’d love to teach you to surf! Love to see you in your new bikini, too!”
“I’m psyched I finally found a girl who wants a large family! Like, ten kids, you said?”
“I’ll have to save for a few more years if you want a ring like that!”
Mrs. T. giggles at every comment. I’m surprised she doesn’t start clapping. I’m dying to scream at the two of them, but I don’t. I know what will happen if I do. Anger turns my words into sludge.
I hate him. And he still never apologized for what he did in the shop.