“Come on,” she says with an eager smile. “You must have some thoughts on it. How does it make you feel? And how do you think that strand of your hair got on the body?”
“He was my boyfriend. We touched and stuff. It got on him and then it got on her. They call it secondary transfer.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Where did you hear that about Dianne?”
Grace pauses. “You know. Talk on social media.”
“You’re following it?”
“Some. I was curious about you. Is that a problem?”
“No. I guess not.”
“It’s just kind of wild, you know?” she asks. “You said it didn’t surprise you she was talking to them. Why is that?”
“Um.”
“Did you get along with her when you and Ryan were dating?”
My smile is all sorts of awkward. This conversation suddenly feels off. Invasive in some strange way. “We need ice cream. Can’t have pancakes without ice cream. I am going to head down the street to buy some.”
“Oh.”
“Back soon.”
I am not fleeing my house to escape my guest. Though it sure looks like it. Outside on the street, I can breathe a little easier and relax. Having someone in my space overnight is interesting. Grace and I might have been close as children. But we need to navigate this new relationship as adults. Guess it’s going to take some time to feel comfortable with each other again. I might need to set boundaries about some subjects. Which is part of a healthy relationship and to be expected. Though I do wonder how long she’s thinking of staying.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Living close to an ice cream shop is a beautiful/terrible thing. The constant temptation to buy everything and fall into a food coma for a hundred years is very real. You can’t tell me Sleeping Beauty wouldn’t have chosen it over pricking her finger on some stupid spindle.
I don’t know when the small dog starts following me on the way back. Though his scent soon makes him hard to ignore. No idea what he’s rolled in, but whoa. When I think about it…as stinky as he is, I would still take him over my other stalker. Her absence is something to be relished and enjoyed. The dog is small and fluffy. But it’s hard to tell his breed beneath all the brown muck.
“Go home.”
He sits his butt on the asphalt and cocks his head.
“You need to go home.”
His bright eyes shoot to the pint in my hands before returning to my face. And the inference is obvious.
“No. This is my ice cream. You can’t have any,” I say in a stern voice. Then I resume walking. He waits a moment before following me again. I can hear the tapping of his nails against the pavement. This has to stop because a single house guest is more than enough. “Dogs are allergic to chocolate. I can’t give you any. It would make you sick.”
The little dude does not seem convinced. As if I would lie about something so important.
“It’s not safe for you out here,” I tell him over my shoulder. “You could get hit by a car or something. Whoever’s supposed to be looking after you is doing a shitty job. I’d complain to management if I were you.”
He gives me a doggy smile and falls into step beside me.
“Bad dog.”
At this he stops and blinks. Like he actually seems taken aback by my words. Hurt even.
“Sorry,” I say. “That was mean and unnecessary. I am sure you’re a very good dog despite the smell. But you can’t keep following me.”
His big bright liquid eyes gaze up at me. If I ignore him, he might get bored and go home. We walk the rest of the way in silence. I have to admire his dedication to frozen desserts.
