My brother actually gives me a sheepish look, which takes me by surprise. It’s probably just a feint. He never skips out on getting vengeance, even if those cupcakes were just and deserved.
“And as for you, I don’t know why you’re here. You’re very unwelcome.” I direct those words at Hal, obviously.
His ultra sea-green eyes pierce into me and turn my stomach and legs to water. God, whatever these symptoms are, they’re getting annoying. Maybe I should go to the hospital after all. His lips twitch at the corners, and for the first time ever, I realize how full they are. Like, not weirdly full but just nice. On a man. On him.
I clear my throat because I’m totally unnerved now that I’ve caught myself staring at Hal’s mouth, noticing it, and feeling something to do with it. No! No, that can’t be it! It has to be my appendix. Or my…my kidneys. My liver? My spleen? Something! Please, for the love of anything holy out there, don’t let it be this rat of a wizard bastard. Don’t let it be Hal disease.
It cannot, absolutely cannot be Hal disease, so I spit out whatever it was I was going to say before the world went sideways on me. “I’m going to adopt a pet—a salamander. I’m going to bring him everywhere with me, even to the bakery, and he’ll sleep with me at night. I’ll take him for car rides and bring him for walks even. Just wanted to let you know, Hal, since I know you still don’t like them. You might want to stay away.”
“Sweet,” Sam responds. “I know you’ve always wanted a pet, but all your douchebag boyfriends wouldn’t let you have one.”
“Mom and Dad never wanted me to have one either,” I point out. “You got a fish because you begged mom for like three years straight, and she finally gave in. I didn’t have the fortitude.”
“I’m getting a cat,” Hal mutters without conviction, and I freaking know he just thought of it on the spot.
“Oh really?” I frown at him. “Christ. The poor animal. Remember, you have to give it food and water. And love. That’s all going to be a problem for you because you’re self-centered and don’t have the capacity to care for another living being. Also, you only love yourself.”
“Jesus, Stella,” Sam groans. He hates that Hal and I are constantly at each other’s throats, even as adults. “This used to be funny, but now it’s getting old. Can’t you just be nice for once? He did save your bakery.”
“Oh, right. About that.” I dig in my bag of technology and cash that I bring home from the bakery every single night and take out the proposal I typed up earlier. I thrust it at Hal. “Let me know by morning what you think. Have a good night, Sam.” I thrust the stapled pages into my brother’s hands because I don’t want to get too close to Hal.
I’m still not sure what is going on with me, and I don’t want to give my scrambled hormones any more reason for confusion and torment. What I need is to get them straightened out, pronto.
I walk confidently past both of them. They’re both flabbergasted as I let myself into the apartment and close the glass door behind me.
Thank goodness this is one lock Hal hasn’t hired someone to come and undo for him yet. He hasn’t bribed the landlord into letting him in either.
It’s probably only a matter of time before I find him lounging on my couch, watching my TV, and eating my snacks.
I had better find out if it’s possible to get a pet salamander. If not, maybe a gecko or any kind of lizard will do, and I’ll bring him or her with me to Seattle. We’ll make the move together. A fresh start free of Haladon Walker.
No, there is no sudden lump in my throat at all. I’m not lumping. Okay, there’s a lump there, but it’s a lump of joy. Well, sigh, okay, so it’s not straight up joy exactly but that’s only because I’ll be closing up shop, literally, and leaving everyone behind, my family included. So what if they’re only going to be half an hour away? It’s still a big change, and change can be hard. I’ve had a big dose of it lately, and it’s catching up.
That would be enough to get anyone lumped up.
CHAPTER 8
Hal
“Yes, hello, I’d like to purchase—I mean adopt—the mangiest cat you have.” Maybe that’s not the best way to start a call to an animal shelter because the lady who answered the call with a nice hello suddenly sounds constipated.
“We don’t use that term, sir.”
“Homeliest then?”
“No, sir, definitely not.”
“Three-legged?”
The silence clearly means the lady on the other end is incredibly annoyed. She might even be contemplating hanging up, but I can’t let her do that. “No, sir, we don’t have any of those in stock either.”