Page 33 of A Taste of Vanilla

“Not your place,” Marley snaps.

“Grant’s energy is rancid,” Oliver mutters, and I don’t have the heart to tease him for commenting on someone’s energy.

“Can it be removed with bleach?” Marley asks.

“There’s not enough in all of Maryland,” he responds.

Marley thinks for a moment. “Today you can come to my place.”

Oliver shakes his head. “No.”

Marley’s eyebrows shoot up. “Excuse me?”

“Your place has no guest room. Your couch is decorative and hostile. She needs to actually sleep.”

“I have a couch.”

He looks up at the sky, squinting. “It’s basically a pillow with legs.”

“It’s mid-century.”

“And it feels like a punishment.”

“Where am I sleeping?” I ask.

I look back and forth as they share a look. I’ve been best friends with the two of them for long enough to know when silent communication is happening. Marley’s eyes narrow, and Oliver’s jaw shifts. Marley tilts her head, and Oliver blinks once. Just once.

Marley’s mouth flattens.

“Stop having private conversations with your faces,” I snap.

Marley looks back at me. “You can stay above the bar.”

I stare.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

Oliver crosses his arms on the top of my car and dips his head down. “Why no?”

“Because the apartment above the bar is not an apartment.”

“It has a bed,” Marley says.

“It has a mattress on the floor.”

“Good enough for college kids.”

“It has one single working outlet, and it smells like paint.”

“Smells like a fresh start to me,” Oliver interjects.

“The shower sounds like a dying bird.”

Marley nods. “That’s true.”