Chapter Five
Meredith yelped in surprise as the paint water splashed over him. The jar hit the floor and shattered at his feet.
David stepped between him and Brian, looming magnificently. It was some of his best work; what he’d done across the breakfast table earlier paled in comparison.
“Out,” he thundered.
Brian shrank back, but, with surprising tenacity, insisted, “I told you, I’ve come for the rest of my things.”
“Then get them,” said David, “and get out.”
Giving David a wide berth, Brian stomped up the stairs.
“You,” David told Meredith, “don’t move from that spot. Just keep well out of his way until he’s gone.”
There didn’t seem much danger of him doing otherwise. With an absent frown, he stood rubbing at one wrist and dripping dejectedly.
David sighed. “I’ll get you a towel.” As he went to fetch it (and found the contents of the linen cupboard piled inexplicably atop the clothes dryer), he reflected that Meredith wouldn’t have ended up drenched in his own paint water if he hadn’t left it sitting out to begin with.
Still, David couldn’t bring himself to say so aloud. (Not just now, anyway. Later, perhaps.)
He returned to find Meredith looking so intolerably forlorn that he tossed the towel into his face and said, “Dry yourself off, you hillbilly harlot.”
That got a laugh from him, which somehow returned everything to normal—even if the normal state of affairs was hardly any more satisfactory.
“That was quite unfair, really,” said Meredith, attempting to pat himself dry. “One can’t help where one’s from.”
#38: That’s the part he’s concerned about.
“Oh, well,” he went on, “at least black won’t stain, and I did want to change anyway. This doesn’t quite suit the mood anymore, does it?”
#39: If allowed the opportunity, he’ll go changing his outfit whenever the urge strikes him.
David retrieved broom and dustpan, shooed Bianca away, and swept up the broken glass. One particularly large and jagged piece had ended up beneath the sofa, and he knelt to reach for it.
“David?”
That pensive note had returned to Meredith’s voice—never a good sign, but being otherwise occupied, David attached less importance to it than he might have. “Hmm?”
“I’m not going.”
Retrieving the glass shard, David sat back on his heels. “What? Not going where?”
“To the wedding.”
David was so astounded that he remained in his crouched position, gaping up at Meredith in disbelief. “I beg your pardon?” Surely he had misunderstood.
“I am not going,” Meredith repeated, now attempting to scratch both wrists at once, “to Florian’s wedding.”
David shot to his feet. “You just said you would, not five minutes ago!”
“I—I’ve changed my mind.”
#40: He is utterly unreliable.
“You lied,” he accused. “You lied to Genevieve.” And to him. Perhaps he’d been quite wrong in his assessment of Meredith after all. David was rarely wrong about such things, and the possibility that he had been annoyed him as much as losing his chance at impressing Maitland Cartier.
“She never would’ve left otherwise,” said Meredith. “And I didn’t lie. The way you were so—well, I suppose you swayed me, and for a moment I thought perhaps—oh, I don’t know,” he said with a hopeless, flailing gesture.
“You fail to understand the importance of this opportunity. To attend—what is the matter with you?” David interrupted himself as Meredith clawed at his own wrists.
“She said I was gay!”
David quite failed to see how one related to the other, but the non sequitur did make it difficult to maintain the proper state of vexation. “What of it?”
“You know I’m allergic to labels,” said Meredith reproachfully.
“Nonsense,” said David.
“I am, I’m breaking out in hives as we speak, look.”
“You’re allergic to cats. Did you see her coat? It was covered in enough fur for a half dozen kittens.”
“And I’m not gay.”
“Well, strictly speaking, no,” began David. The business with Mrs. Jupiter—to say nothing of the sycamore dryads—had made that obvious, in case there’d been any doubt, which there hadn’t. “I’m certainly not claiming you as one of ours, but it depends, really, how you define—”
Meredith sneezed. “Oh, stop, you’re making it worse,” he pleaded. “You know I’m allergic, you’ve seen it.”
#41: He sincerely believes this.
David, however, was not so convinced. His skepticism must have shown on his face because Meredith insisted, “You have. The first time we went to—oh, I forget the name, that little satyr club that ended up getting shut down by the health department, remember?”
Unfortunately, David did. He’d spent the entire time awkwardly sipping a beer on the sidelines while Meredith danced—neither particularly well nor with any trace of self-consciousness—with whoever caught his eye.
The night had ended with him propositioning a rather attractive lumberjack type and subsequently being informed that said lumberjack “didn’t do bisexuals,” whereupon Meredith, to all appearances entirely unperturbed, had replied that this was perfectly all right because he himself was straight.
Astonishingly, the man had ended up asking him home after all, though David had found himself somehow relieved when Meredith didn’t take him up on it.
“Yes, and as I recall, you kissed three different men—”
“And two ladies.”
“—and two ladies,” David agreed, “before telling that bearded fellow you were straight.”
Meredith waved a dismissive hand. “Just wanted to throw him off balance a bit, that’s all. He deserved it, really. He called me bisexual!”
“Well, yes, but—” But you are hung in the air unspoken. “I mean to say, that’s hardly an insult.”
“It was, the way he said it,” muttered Meredith darkly. “And I’m allergic to that sort of thing. It gave me hives! You saw. Left me all covered in horrible spots like some sort of leper.”
“Now, look here, young man, Hansen’s disease is quite a serious matter,” said David. “And by your logic, you’re half to blame yourself, going and calling yourself straight just to prove a point.”
Meredith was quiet at that, though whether he was actually giving the matter due consideration or simply sulking was anyone’s guess. “All right,” he conceded at last, “so I’m not straight.”
“Yes, I gathered that.”
#42: He acts as if this were not already abundantly clear.
“But I’m not gay, either. And I don’t like people going and pinning labels on me, all right?”
“Understood. But—” Here David faltered, trying desperately to regain the thread of whatever conversation Meredith had derailed them from.
Right—the wedding, of course. “But the wedding. Label-induced or not, a case of hives is no excuse to miss your own brother’s wedding.
Especially when he’s marrying a Cartier. ”
“Oh, Cartier,” said Meredith in exasperation. “Really, David, why don’t you—”
He broke off at the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and for once had the sense to keep silent as Brian came stomping back down bearing an overflowing cardboard carton, glared at the two of them, and made his final departure without another word.
The moment he was out the door, Meredith darted up the stairs, calling back over his shoulder, “Be back in just a moment.”
#43: He is never back in just a moment.
In Meredith’s absence, David cleared away the tea things, sent a text message to Harriet to make plans for the afternoon, and formulated several sensible arguments that would make Meredith understand the necessity of attending Adalynn Cartier’s wedding.
He’d intended to launch into these the moment Meredith returned, but when he descended the staircase, David could only stare. “What the hell are you wearing?”
“What are you talking about? I wear skirts all the time.”
#44: He wears skirts all the time.
#45: The skirt, however, is the least of the problems.
It was houndstooth check, quite short (though he’d had the decency to wear leggings underneath), and clashed hideously with the green argyle sweater he’d chosen to accompany it.
The sweater’s lower pair of sleeves, useless on him, were tied into a jaunty bow at his waist, which irritated David.
(Naturally, Meredith had not bothered to pick up the previous sweater that still hung abandoned over the back of an armchair in plain view.)
“Besides,” added Meredith, drifting to the kitchen table to begin the lengthy task of replacing all his jewelry, “the prime minister wears dresses, too.”
“Ah, yes,” conceded David, “but she came out as a lady last year, so that’s a bit different, isn’t it?”
“She wore them well before that,” returned Meredith. “And anyway, haven’t you read Günter Grass? He’s got this whole bit about how skirts are masculine, it’s hilarious.” He paused to consider. “Only it don’t work so good in the English.”
“Language,” admonished David.
“Yeah, in the English language,” agreed Meredith, sliding his final ring into place. “ ’S what I’m telling you.”
“Never mind,” said David. “You know I couldn’t care less about the skirt. But what the hell is that sweater?”
“Do you like it?” Meredith looked far too pleased with himself and turned as if to model the ridiculous garment. “Belinda Fairfax gave it to me.”
“Who?”
“Oh, really, David,” said Meredith reproachfully. “You met her only last week when you came into the shop.” In a conscientiously hushed tone, he added, “She’s just moved here from Rhode Island, you know.”
“Ah. That explains the sleeves.”
“Yeah, I figure it’s sort of avant-garde.”
“Is it.”
Meredith grinned, David’s sarcasm apparently lost on him. “Yeah! Kinley says this sort of thing is about to be in. Not that I mind either way, really.”
#46: He never minds about anything.
Kinley was one McKinley Hendricks, Meredith’s best friend and the owner of the only other tattoo shop in town. By all rights, they should have been rivals, but as they specialized in different styles, the issue had failed to arise.
“And anyway,” Meredith went on, “it’s not as if you’ve got room to talk, the way you go around with them funny fisherman sweaters all the time.”