He puts his mouth to my ear and whispers, “You give great head.”
I smile into the darkness. Crisis averted. The closeness between us is back.
Basil comes back into the room and begins to talk. He goes on and on and on and tells us every little detail of his day, like he does every night.
We lie in silence and listen. “Has anyone ever told you that you have verbal diarrhea?” Christopher asks him.
I poke Christopher in the ribs.
“No, why? What’s that?” Basil replies without a clue.
I poke Christopher again. “Don’t,” I whisper.
“Just a bug that’s going around,” Christopher lies.
“I hope I don’t catch it,” Basil replies. “It doesn’t sound good at all.”
“I guarantee that if you keep your mouth shut, you won’t,” Christopher mutters dryly.
“Good idea,” Basil replies as he climbs into bed.
I giggle. “Good night, Baz.”
“Grumps,” a voice whispers.
I drag my eyes open to see Christopher fully dressed and leaning over my bed. “What’s wrong?” I frown.
“I have to go.”
“Where?”
“Home.”
My eyes fly open. “What?”
“I have to sign some paperwork with my brothers.”
What the hell?
I sit up and rub my eyes. “What do you mean?”
“There’s paperwork concerning my parents’ estate, and I need to sign along with my brothers on the same day.”
I blink.
He didn’t mention this at all yesterday.
“When will you be back?” I frown.
“A few days.”
“Do you want me to come?”
“No,” he replies, way too fast. He kisses me quickly on the lips. “You have fun here. Go to Portugal with the others.”
I think for a second. “Actually, I’ll stay here and work for the week. Maria is off sick, and they offered me her shifts.” I glance over, and his full backpack is packed by the door. “Just leave your backpack here with me.”
“It’s fine.”
My eyes search his. He’s not coming back.
“I’m fine,” he snaps.
But I didn’t ask him anything . . . he’s not fine. He’s freaking out.
“Okay?” He smiles. “We good?” He nods as if trying to convince himself. “Okay? Everything’s all right.” He’s tripping over his words and stands in a rush.
I get out of bed and watch him. He’s fussing around and looking everywhere but at me.
“Christopher.”
He keeps putting things in his bag and fiddling with the zipper.
“Christopher,” I say, sterner. “Look at me.”
His eyes rise to mine.
“It’s okay.”
“Yep, it’s sweet.” He nods as if convincing himself. “I know. Totally sweet.”
Sweet is not a word I’ve heard him use. He’s never lied to me before.