Page 21 of Carver’s Craving

“Yeah.” Carver sighed. “Okay, this is where we turn back.”

I shone my flashlight ahead and saw where the driveway ended at the road. “You don’t walk on the road?”

“Not at night. People drive at high speeds. Even if I wore a reflective vest, I wouldn’t feel safe. If Poppin needs extra exercise, we just go up and down the driveway again. Tonight, though, I think we’re good with just one trip.”

Poppin, as if understanding this entire conversation, turned and headed back up toward the house.

“Well, okay, then.” I followed.

Carver spun the wagon and caught up with us.

We walked together in companionable silence.

Once we were back inside, Carver yawned. “I didn’t sleep well last night. I, uh, think I’ll call it a night. Go ahead and watch whatever you’d like. I’ve got cable and a few streaming services. Not much else to do up here. Since I don’t chop trees and stuff.” He hung his coat on a peg.

I unclipped Poppin from her leash and, with a bit of maneuvering, removed her coat. “You’re a bit of a crazy one.”

Swear to God, the dog smiled.

“I was thinking that maybe we could go out for brunch tomorrow.” Carver had removed his hat and now he scratched his scalp, looking a bit nervous. “I mean, if you want. My treat.”

“I should be treating you.” My hackles rose.

He waved me off. “I invited you and I have a good-paying job.”

You know he’s right. Still, it stung. “I could cook something.”

“Nope. Fifties Diner is a Mission City institution. You have to come with me for their brunch. Well—they serve all their food twenty-four hours a day, so brunch is more the time one eats rather than the foods they select.” He waved away the thought like he was swatting at a fly. “In the morning, let’s take the dogs for their walk and then head out. The sooner we get there, the better the odds of getting a good booth.” With that, he scooped Walter and headed toward the bedrooms. “Goodnight, Styx. I’m glad you’re here.”

Yet he didn’t turn when he said the words. He disappeared down the hall with Poppin hard on his heels.

I stood in the middle of the great room with no real idea what to do.

Laundry. You can finish the laundry. So, you know, you have clean clothes to wear to that Fifties place.

Right.

Plus, my pajamas were in the wash. Unless I was sleeping naked, I needed to wait for them to dry. And, unlike Carver, I’d had an excellent night’s sleep. Plus three satisfying meals today. None of which had I been required to pay for.

Damn lucky. Thank you, Charles and Carver.

So I put my clothes in the dryer, watched the Toronto Maple Leafs get routed in three periods, and headed to bed with fresh PJs.

In the morning, I awoke without an alarm.

For a long moment, I just lay in bed.

I remembered where I was. I remembered Baxter wasn’t with me. I tried to get my bearings. Finally, I checked my phone and found only a text from my father starting with ‘Time for you to come home and pull your weight…’ which I dismissed without reading the rest. I should’ve felt something, but I didn’t. My father’s nagging had exhausted me for so long that I’d decided to walk away emotionally. Just not be sucked in to the guilt he tried to heap on me.

That was that.

I checked my email—to find nothing new—and decided the time had come to face the day.

The air was chilly as I scooted out of bed and headed to the bathroom. In the bathroom, humidity still clung—as did the water droplets on the shower walls. Obviously Carver’d just taken his turn. Deciding that was permission, I nabbed a fresh towel and showered as well.

After putting a towel around my waist, I strutted back to my bedroom so I could get dressed.

Man, he really likes the air cold. Is that to save on his heating bill or because he prefers it this way? I had no idea, but I was mighty glad to pull on my wool socks, jeans, henley, and a sweatshirt. I didn’t spot a hairdryer, so my hair was damp when I finally emerged into the great room.