Page 17 of The Leaving Kind
Squawking in distress, Victor sat up and immediately regretted it. His stomach gurgled, and bitter fluid stalked the back of his throat. Only the fierce pain across his temples stopped him from opening his mouth in a liquid yawn. Vomiting would only exacerbate his headache. Also, Tereza was already mad.
Why was she mad?
Perhaps not trusting his sense of self-preservation or control, Tereza stepped back, her chunky heels tocking against the hardwood.
“Where’s the rug?” Victor asked, blinking stupidly at the floor. A vague memory prodded. He mentally batted it away. His head hurt too much.
“Oh, Vic. What have you been doing to yourself?”
He glanced up at her but didn’t answer.
Tez shook her head and sighed. “Come on, we need to get you through the shower, and then you can clean while I cook.”
“You’re a terrible cook,” Victor mumbled as he hoisted himself to his feet. “I’ll clean and you can cook. No, I’ll cook and you can clean.”
“Fine, fine. As long as we get started soon. Sage will be here at one. Cori said she’d try to come early. She’s bringing the balloons.”
Balloons. For his grandson’s birthday.
A weight dropped through the center of Victor’s torso. “Why did our son have to clone himself so soon? I’m only fifty-two. That’s much too young to be a grandfather.”
Tez rolled her eyes. “Could you keep it in your pants at his age? It’s a wonder he doesn’t already have six kids.”
“I wasn’t sticking my dick into people who could grow babies.” Victor shuddered.
Tez’s chuckle had a reluctant sound, as though she’d rather not be amused. Sobering, she gripped his shoulder. “Are you going to be all right today? Seriously, Vic. You—” She cut herself off with a sigh. Then, “Why don’t we move it all to my place or reschedule?”
“No, no, I’m good.” If not for Tez’s hand, he might tip forward and face-plant where the living room rug used to be, but ... “What did I do with the goddamn rug?”
Fur wrapped around his ankles. Victor glanced down and smiled. Curving his lips upward hurt his head a whole lot less than curving them downward. He stooped—ill-advised—to stroke Dexter’s long, white fur. “Where did the rug go, Dexie?”
Shaking her head, Tez helped him stand again. “I’ll look for it while you shower.” She held out a hand. “Give me that robe. I’m going to burn it.”
“No. It’s ...” Victor stroked the filthy silk again, then shrugged it off. “Put it into a bag. I’ll take it to the cleaners.” His eyes widened. “Oh my God. It’s Sunday? I didn’t shop. Tez, I didn’t shop. I haven’t—”
“It’s just hitting you now that I had to let myself in because you were passed out on the living room couch in your underwear when you promised me two days ago that you’d be ready for this party?”
Don’t cry.
Victor sniffed. “I am a mess. Why am I such a mess? I didn’t love him anymore, Tez.”
The weary annoyance in Tez’s expression softened. She went to curl an arm around his shoulders and then hesitated. “I’ll hug you after you shower.”
Another vague memory resolved out of the mist of the past few days. A thunderstorm with heavy rain. Lightning. A blue tarp. The guy from the tree farm.
“I dripped on the rug,” he said.
“What?”
“The day it rained. Thursday?” That had been Thursday? Vic glanced down at himself, at his pale, sticky skin, his underwear—he’d changed into bright red briefs. Okay, that was good. He’d at least done that. Three days ago. “I got wet and came in here and dripped all over the rug and then worried about the wet rug on the floor. I have no idea what I did with it, though.”
“We’ll find it. Now go shower.”
He shook himself like a wet dog. “Right. Yes. Shower.”
As he reached the doorway, Tez said, “It was the idea of him you were in love with, and ideas are hard to let go of.”
A half smile tugged at a corner of his mouth, one of sad and strained humor. Bracing a hand against the door jamb, he swung his head in her direction. “You ever wonder whether we should have gotten married? Bought the whole farm?”