Page 95 of Never After Us
Both men freeze.
Barret’s hand slips on the mixing panel.Dexter chokes probably because he tried to breathe and swallow at the same time.He’s bad at coordinating the simple things.
“What?”Barret says flatly.
“To who?”Dexter coughs.“The plant in your hallway?The door?Did you finally name your fucking fridge?”
“To my neighbor,” I mutter.“To Mara.”
Silence.
“Holy shit,” Dexter whispers, eyes huge.“He’s bonding.”
“Shut up,” I snap.“That’s not even a term.”
“It’s a term,” Barret states.“Not what I would use to say about you and your pretty neighbor, but yes.”
Barret turns in his chair slowly—like he’s afraid any sudden movement might spook the wild emotional creature talking to him.
“So you’re attached,” he repeats.“To a human.It usually takes you ten years or more to do it and then a few more to admit it.”
“I’m going to punch you,” I warn.
“I’m just clarifying,” Barret says calmly.“Because last time you got ‘attached,’ you adopted a stray cat for six hours and then had a panic attack when it sat on your chest.”
“I didn’t know how heavy they were,” I snap back.“And that was too many fucking years ago.”
Dexter snorts.“Trauma by cat.”
“It almost killed me.”
“It wasonlyeight pounds.”
“Seventeen, and stop sabotaging the conversation,” I growl.
Dexter sits up.“Okay.Fine.You’re attached.To your neighbor ...but that includes the child?”
I rub the back of my neck and nod.
“Mila is the part that freaks me out the most,” I admit.“She’s ...everywhere.All the time.Asking philosophical frog questions.Needing to know about what people eat when they’re on tour.How I write songs ...if she can see the studio.And she looks at me like I’m fixable.”
Dexter nods sagely.“Kids do that.”
Barret leans back, expression unreadable.“So you’re ...what?Babysitting?”
“No,” I say too fast.
“Yes,” Dexter corrects.
“I’m helping,” I insist.“A little.Here and there.And we’re ...sorting through her aunt’s vinyl collection.”
I stop there.
I don’t mention the letters.I don’t mention how personal they feel—how opening those envelopes feels like stepping into someone else’s life, someone else’s heartbreak.They’re not something I want to explain.Not to these two.Maybe not to anyone.
Dexter wiggles his eyebrows like he’s auditioning for a cartoon.“Is that code for something?”
“No,” I growl, wishing I could muzzle him with duct tape and a prayer.
