I nodded. I didn’t really feel any better about the situation, but I couldn’t argue with her, and I couldn’t change her feelings. Her words made sense, whereas my hurt feelings did not.
Perhaps sensing this, she leaned forward, hesitated for a moment, and gave my hand a tentative caress.
“How about this,” she said. She was perched right in front of me, and I couldn’t avoid meeting her eyes; they were deep, dark, and filled with honest emotion. “We forget about this for a while, okay? We see if you fit in here. We see if there’s something—” She halted abruptly and looked away, blushing slightly. The awkward motion caught me by surprise.
And just like that, my hurt feelings were gone, swept away with those unspoken words.
She continued: “If after a week you still don’t want Weasel here, we’ll figure something out. Okay? Does that work for you?”
“Okay,” I said, and I smiled. It was a genuine smile.
“Good. I’m glad that’s settled. Maybe now you can stop your pouting.”
Taylor grabbed a milk crate from the stack against the wall and started packing up Weasel’s things. There was a pile of black-and-white composition books near the head of the futon, and she took care tucking them into the bottom of the crate.
“What did he help you with?” I asked as I watched her work. “You said he helped you when the city went crazy. What did he do?”
Taylor paused for a moment, frozen over a pile of clothing. She stared into the milk crate for a couple of seconds, lost in thought, then resumed her chore, gathering up dirty flannels, wool socks, and a pair of ratty jeans. “My parents,” she said. Her voice was low. When she’d been placating me earlier, her voice had been strong, cajoling. Now it was breathy and weak, like the wind had started to leak from her lungs. “Back in September, my parents … something happened. They were just … gone. Weasel helped me cope. He kept me fed. He kept me from giving in to despair.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, suddenly realizing just how little I knew about her and her life. “Is it like Charlie’s parents? Maybe they’re still here somewhere?”
“No. Not like Charlie’s parents.” She shook her head, a hint of frustration coming into her voice. “My mom and dad … they’re just gone.
I stood up, wanting to comfort her, wanting to put my arms around her and lend her some of my strength, but she abruptly turned and put the milk crate between us. “I’ve dealt with it,” she said, her voice suddenly hard. “It’s in the past, and it’s not something I want to talk about.”
I nodded.
The moment was gone. The vulnerable, caring Taylor had disappeared, chased away by my stupid questions.
I could tell I wasn’t getting the whole story—about her, about her parents—but I didn’t want to push her any harder.
“You should move your stuff up here. Get yourself settled in,” she said. “You’ve cluttered up the living room long enough.” And with that, she turned and left, taking Weasel’s belongings with her.
After moving my stuff up to the new room, I sat down at the sewing table and started to change the dressing on my hand. The wounds on my palm had reopened a couple of times during the day, and the gauze was tacky with drying blood and pus. I hissed as I pulled it away from the skin, a sharp stab of pain radiating up my forearm.
“Shit, man. Let me help you with that.”
I turned and found Floyd standing in the open doorway. He had a guitar case dangling from his hand, an old, well-used case covered in stickers and hand-drawn graffiti. The words
He lifted my hand and started studying my palm. There was a thin trickle of blood seeping from the largest puncture. “Fuck, I can’t deal with blood,” he muttered, turning my hand toward the sunlit window. His face was going pale, but he didn’t look away.
“You don’t have to do that,” I said. “I can clean the gore and blood. Just help me wrap it up when I’m done, okay?”