Free Tied Up in Knots by Mary Calmes Page B

been that long.”
    “Can you just drop it?”
    I turned to go back in the kitchen.
    “Hello.”
    Stopping, I gave him my attention again.
    “Are you going to lighten up?”
    I remained silent.
    “Maybe I shouldn’t have come home at all.”
    Any word out of my mouth I would instantly regret, so I swallowed down the attack and kept my eyes locked on him as I crossed my arms. It was a low blow, and childish, and I wanted to climb the stairs and both beat him and hug him as hard as I could.
    He cleared his throat. “Okay, so that was a shitty thing to say.”
    I lifted one eyebrow in complete agreement.
    “Yeah,” he sighed. “Really shitty.”
    I felt like I was standing in the middle of a minefield. Any way I turned, there could be another explosion, so I kept quiet, jaw clenched, focusing on that, on being still, instead of blowing up and venting my frustration all over him.
    “So, uhm, do we have anything to drink?”
    It took a second for me to speak, and when I did, my voice sounded strained and filled with gravel. “I have all kinds of beer for you.”
    “Do we have any of the KBS left?” he asked hopefully.
    “We do.”
    “That’s what I want,” he almost whimpered.
    “You got it. Shower,” I commanded before returning to the kitchen.
    Things felt odd, unbalanced, like we were off somehow, and I wanted to fix it but I wasn’t exactly sure how to do that. How did you restore normalcy after that talk?
     
     
    I WAS tossing a salad when the doorbell rang. It was Saturday night, a little after nine, so it was a strange to have someone there, but since Chickie got up and rambled to the door, taking his sweet time, not barking, I figured whoever it was, he knew.
    Checking the peephole, I found Barrett Van Allen. He had a bottle of wine in one hand and a bag of what looked like Chinese food in the other.
    “Aww shit,” I said as I opened the door. “Did we have plans that I spaced on?”
    “Nice greeting,” he teased, smacking my abdomen as he chuckled and walked by me into the house. He didn’t wait for an invite. We’d already established on a number of occasions that he didn’t need one, and he petted Chickie as he passed. “And no, man, how could we? You just got back. But I saw your light on when I got home from work, figured there was nothing in your fridge, and thought I’d help you out.”
    It was thoughtful of him and one of the many reasons I’d grown to like him since he’d moved in next door a little more than three months ago.
    “But it smells great in here already,” he said, passing me the bottle of the Trimbach Gewurztraminer he knew I liked. “And since I don’t hear any jazz and you’re cooking—is your guy back?”
    “Yeah, Ian’s home.”
    “Oh, then I’ll go,” he said, trying to give me the bag of food as well. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”
    I shook my head, holding the bottle out to him. “Don’t worry about it, but take this with you so you—”
    “Hello.”
    We turned to see Ian in a white T-shirt and jeans, standing at the top of the stairs.
    “Hey.” Barrett smiled at him. “Sorry to intrude. Just dropping off some alcohol and takeout.”
    Ian smiled back, but it didn’t reach his eyes as he descended. He glanced at Chickie, who was standing beside Barrett, letting him scratch behind his ears, and then padded across the floor in his bare feet to join us.
    He reached out, and he and Barrett shook hands.
    “Ian, this is Barrett Van Allen. He bought the house on the left,” I explained. “And Barrett, this is Ian Doyle, who you’ve heard all about.”
    “I have,” he replied affably. “It’s good to meet you, marshal.”
    Ian nodded and withdrew his hand, taking the bottle of wine Barrett had brought over from me. “I heard what you said, and you’re right, there’s no jazz on. Miro thinks I don’t like it, but I just like my music better.”
    Barrett chuckled. “Well, I have to tell you, Miro had the windows open the day I moved in,