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Carly shouted from behind her door, “Is that Caleb out there? Get your ass up here, Clark. I need someone to play poker with.”
“Play with Callahan,” he called back. “I’m in no mood.”
“Jamie can’t bluff to save his life, and you’re supposed to be nice to me because I’m sick. Come up here before I die of boredom.”
He glanced at Jamie, who shrugged and said, “Whatever the woman wants.”
Nana appeared with a deck of cards and a box of matches, which she handed over. “To bet with,” she said. “Stop in the kitchen before you leave so I can fix up those cuts.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Carly sat up straighter when he came in. He hadn’t been inside her room since he was about thirteen. She’d redecorated. But the decor didn’t interest him as much as the tray of uneaten food on her bedside table. She didn’t look so hot. There were shadows under her eyes, and her color was off.
“You have to eat.”
“God, not you, too. They’ve been plying me with food all day. I’m not hungry. I had a stomachache, anyway.”
That caught his attention. “Stomachache isn’t good.”
“Jamie-induced. It went away. Give me the cards. And that tray.”
He did, and she took the food of
f so she could use the flat surface to shuffle on. “Sit down, Clark,” she said. “We’re playing seven-card stud.”
They played a few hands for matchsticks, but he couldn’t keep his head in it, and even though Carly managed her usual steady stream of shit-talking, she wasn’t at the top of her game, either.
“What happened to your hand?” she asked, rubbing her temple with two fingers.
“Punched Richard Morrow.”
“Nice. Did Ellen faint and call you her hero?”
“Ellen told me to take a hike.”
“I have to say, Clark, you might actually suck at this relationship stuff worse than I do.”
“At least I can play poker.”
Carly massaged her left shoulder in her right hand. “Yeah, I’m kind of sucking at poker. Maybe we should play Go Fish instead.”
“Go Fish is for little kids.” He stood up. “I have to get home.”
Her hand shot out and wrapped around his wrist. “Don’t. Please stay for a little while. It helps keep my mind off … everything.”
He studied her. She was rumpled and small, with tired, scared eyes and more bravado than any one woman should possess. He felt sorry for her. It was marginally better than feeling sorry for himself.
With a sigh, he sat back down. “I don’t want to talk about Ellen.”
“Fine. Deal the cards.”
Jamie started playing something on the piano, and Caleb and Carly settled into a game of strategy best suited for eight-year-olds. After a few minutes, she rubbed her temple again, then stretched her shoulders as if they were bothering her.
“You have a headache?” he asked.
“Little bit.”
He put down his cards. “How long have you had it?”
