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“It’s a nightgown,” I said. “It’s a normal piece of human sleepwear.”
“Nope.”
“People wear nightgowns, Jack.”
“Not like that one, they don’t.”
“Hey,” I said. “I’m not making fun of what you’re wearing.”
“What I’m wearing is normal.”
I shuffled over to his mirror and looked at myself. White cotton. Short sleeves. A little ruffle below the knees. “I do not look like a Victorian child. A Victorian child would have lace and ribbons. And a little cap on its head.”
“Pretty close, though.”
“I was just trying to bring girlfriend-like sleepwear.”
“I’ve never seen a girlfriend in anything even close.”
“Your girlfriends probably only sleep in thongs.”
“At the maximum.” Jack gave an exaggerated sigh and gazed up at the ceiling as if remembering it fondly.
I checked my reflection again. “This seemed,” I said, in my own defense, “like the most professional of all my sleepwear options.”
“But—I mean, is it yours?”
“Of course it’s mine. You think I stole it?”
“Yeah. From a ninety-year-old grandma.”
Now I was annoyed. He’d called me a lot of insulting things today, from “plain,” to “an idiot,” to “the epitome of ordinary.” Now he was saying “grandma”? To my face?
Somehow, this was the best retort I could manage: “You’re not in a position to throw shade, Mister Clothes-All-Over-The-Floor.”
It was supposed to be a burn, but Jack just started laughing.
Like really laughing—his shoulders shaking and everything. “That’s a terrible burn,” he said. “I think that’s the worst burn I’ve ever heard.”
“It’s not funny,” I said.
“I’m sorry,” he said, tumping over and pressing his face against the bedspread. “But it absolutely is funny.”
“Hey!” I said. “Nobody wants to see your underwear.”
“Actually,” he said, sitting back up and sobering his face. “People pay very good money to see my underwear.”
“Not your dirty underwear. On the bathroom floor!”
But he just gave a little trust me on this nod. “You’d be surprised.”
“Well,” I said, feeling like I needed to make this point. “I am not one of those people.”
“I know. It’s a thing I like about you.”
Was he trying to weasel out of picking up his mess by flattering me? I tried again. “Let me ask you this. Am I your maid?”
The more he tried to keep a straight face, the more his face seemed to fight with him. “We established that on day one.”
