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“Wouldn’t know,” he shouted back. “Didn’t really have one.”
“Neither did I, Lachlan, so your motherless child sob story has limited effect.”
She heard his crack of laughter through the closed door, and it made her smile.
He had taught her that. That sort of grim gallows humor. Taking things that hurt and turning them into a joke. She remembered when she had first noticed him doing that. They had been spending time together in the woods, while he hid from another of his father’s rages.
He can’t take a joke. But I can take a punch, and a joke. Both those things will probably serve me well in life.
She had just looked at him in horror.
You can laugh.
I can?
Some things are so terrible, all you can do is laugh. Right?
I hadn’t thought of it like that.
You learn. You learn to take joy where you can. Because God knows no one is going to give it to you. You gotta steal it.
They had stolen a lot of joy together, in her estimation.
They had taken those sharp and awful things they’d both had to deal with in their lives and turned them into laughter. He had made a great case for why that could be a good thing.
She sat down on the edge of his couch, her hands in her lap. For the first time she really thought about him asking if she wanted to change her clothes. Did that mean sheshouldhave changed her clothes? Was there something wrong with them? He was supposed to be helping her be more confident. But suddenly, she felt less confident.
He appeared a moment later, wearing a dark button-up shirt that he had tucked into his jeans, and a different hat than he’d had on before.
“Was there something wrong with my clothes?”
He looked her over. “No.”
“Then why did you ask if I wanted to change?”
“I assumed you might not want to go out in the clothes that you wore to work.”
“I wasn’t doing sweaty work.”
“Yeah. You’re right.”
“What am I missing?”
He made a short, hesitant noise in the back of his throat. “Think about the kinds of clothes you normally see women out in. At Smokey’s. It’s not like you don’t go out with me.”
“I just don’t usually notice things like that. It doesn’t really matter to me. My dad essentially had the same wardrobe from 1970 onward.”
“I think you’re probably right. I’m not one to make a big deal out of clothes. But... when I go out, if I’m trying to project a certain thing, then I dress accordingly.”
“What thing are you ever trying to project?”
“That I’m available.”
She frowned. “Right.”
“You look good. There’s nothing wrong with what you’re wearing.”
“But there’s also nothing right about what I’m wearing?”
