Chapter 7: The Radiator Coughs

I buzzed Domenic up and scrambled to move.

I used the time badly.

"Closet," I whispered, and Victor stepped inside the coat closet by the door with his duffel in his arms.

"The bag," I said.

"I know the bag."

"It's the bag that's the problem."

He pulled it in after him, and the closet door clicked shut on his elbow.

I opened it.

"Your elbow," I said.

He moved his elbow.

I shut it.

Then I looked at the kitchen and saw two mugs steaming on the counter, a net sack of lemons, and a wrench.

I put the mugs in the oven.

I put the lemons in the cat's bed, which was a mistake, and the wrench in the dishwasher.

The cat looked at me with contempt and sat on the lemons.

Domenic knocked twice, and I opened the door.

He was holding two white takeout bags and a bunch of grocery-store roses.

He looked well rested and sure of himself.

"Fish tank place," he said, and kissed my cheek before I could stop him. "I got the thing you like."

"Which thing is that?"

"The pasta with the cream."

"I'm lactose intolerant."

"It's a little cream."

"Domenic, you've known me for seven years."

"That's why I know you don't mean it," he said, and walked in.

He set the bags on my table and looked around.

He is a man who walks into a room and waits to be introduced.

"You cleaned," he said.

"I always clean."

"Not like this. It smells like lemon."

"I use a spray."

"Since when?"

"Since Monday."

He nodded slowly, and I watched him let it go, which is his best skill.

He took off his jacket and headed toward the hall closet.

"Don't," I said.

He stopped.

"Don't what?"

"Don't put your jacket in there. It's full of winter coats. It's a mess."

"It's a closet, Nad."

"It's a closet with a door that sticks."

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