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“He’s not going to let her push him around this time,” I say, wanting to believe it.
She regards me for a moment, then says, “I believe you’re right about that. You care about my brother, don’t you?”
“Idocare about him,” I say. That much is factual. These feelings that have been wrapping me up are like a strong tide. An undertow.
The other times I’ve fallen hard for someone, it always felt like I was really falling, like the pain of landing was coming. With Danny, it’s different. I’m comfortable with him, and I feel…cherished. But there’s a voice in my head that insists that’ll only make the landing harder. That I might be about to learn that a broken heart is a much sharper pain than a bruised ego.
“Good,” Ruthie says firmly. “But here’s where I say it.” She firms her lips. “If you hurt him, you hurt all of us, and I’m much less forgiving than my brother.”
“I get it,” I say. “I have a sister too.”
And I read her fiancé the riot act, little does Delia know. He listened to it and then promised me that I could drown him in a vat of whiskey if he ever fucked up. We shook on it, and I made him a drink.
I take a second to think all of this over. Danny’s parents made him feel like he was different, wrong. Which is probably another reason he seeks out things that are simple and predictable. Comforting.
I’m none of those things, though, am I?
I don’t want to be one more person who makes him feel like he’s not enough. Maybe I’ve already made him feel that way, unintentionally, with the stupid makeover stuff.
I don’t know what’ll happen next, but I know I don’t want to hurt him.
So I say, “I would never intentionally hurt your brother.”
“Good,” she says. “Now that that’s settled, I want to pick your brain about my new business.”
I lift out my arms. “Pick away.”
So for a while we talk business while offering occasionalyou’ve got thisandten out of tentype praise to Izzy.
About a half hour later, Ruthie drops me off at the apartment. She doesn’t come inside because Izzy has a playdate.
I make my way upstairs, slowly, and who do I spy on the third floor landing but Big Mike? He’s messing with a flyer on the bulletin board by the door, something about celebrating the connection between lunar energy and the menstrual cycle, but something tells me it’s just an excuse to poke around. That, or he saw Ruthie’s car.
“Looking for your hamster again?” I ask, raising my eyebrows.
He laughs. “Not today.” He tears a number from the lunar cycle sheet. “Sounds interesting.”
Man, he really is shit at being an undercover detective.
“It’s a pity they don’t microchip hamsters,” I say, “but I guess if they did it would take up the whole hamster. It would be like a cyborg.”
He continues laughing, much harder than the joke warranted. I start walking away. “Say,” he starts. “Would you mind giving me Danny’s number? I think we got off on the wrong foot, and I was hoping he’d let me buy him a beer.”
“You sure you’re not going to try to coerce him to get a lap dance again?” I ask, giving him a wink. This is actually a little fun—after listening to all those crime procedurals, I’m out here talking to a bonafide undercover detective.
“You heard about that, huh?” he asks, having the good grace to look embarrassed. Or maybe it’s just his character of Big Mike who’s embarrassed.
“I did, yes. I’ve never understood why men like to go to those places together. Bonding through blue balls, and all that.”
He goes a deeper shade of red. “The wings—”
“Aren’t even that good,” I interject. “I went with one of my friends years ago to see what all the fuss was about. Because people are forever talking about the wings at strip joints. You know what? They were under-seasoned.Criminallyunder-seasoned.”
“His number?” he asks hopefully.
We’d decided it would be best if Danny talks to him to get some sense of what he wants, so I give it to him, then wave goodbye and tell him to give some love to Pumpkin.
If that’s even his name.
