“What?” Dad shrugged, holding his hands out.
Mike laughed and placed his napkin on the table. “Well, my mother raised me with the strong belief that it’s considered an insult to the chef when one puts salt on his food.”
Vicki’s smile pushed her brows up. “See, Greg? You could stand to learn a few table manners, yourself.”
Sam laughed.
“Hm, Ara?” Dad cleared his throat, ignoring Vicki and Sam. “Why don’t you give Mike the grand tour?”
“I’m sure he’s seen a house before, Dad.”
“Not yours, though,” Mike said, seeming to offer me the position of Tour Guide.
“Okay. Come on.” I stood up, but when I reached for his hand, he quickly drew it away. Even Dad and Vicki saw it, disguising their shock with a swift glance at their plates, while I ate the swell of mortification.
“Thanks again, Vicki.” Mike grabbed his plate and mine.
“You’re welcome, Mike.”
I walked off in a huff, looking back at Mike. “Are you coming or not?”
“Coming.” He dumped the plates in the sink as we passed the kitchen and headed through the arch to the forbidden formal room.
“So, this is the dining room…”
“Two dining rooms?”
“Yeah, for all those dinner guests Vicki entertains.” I laughed.
“Right.” Mike nodded, crossing his arms. I don’t think he realised I was joking.
“And out there is the backyard.” I pointed beyond the windows.
“Is that the swing? Where you sit when you’re sad?”
“No, it’s a slide.”
“Ha-ha.” He flicked his hand out and knocked my ponytail.
“Uh!” I held up a finger. “No mucking about in here. You’ll hit the chandelier.”
Mike looked up. “Hm. Look at that. A real chandelier.”
“It’s plastic,” I remarked and walked on, leading him to the TV room that met back up with the front entrance. “We watch TV in here.”
Mike stood by the suede sofa and considered the giant LCD sitting neatly on the white cabinet. “No drinks in the lounge,” he read the ‘house rules’ painted on the wooden wall-plaque. “No name-calling. No…”
“Okay.” I grabbed his shoulders and spun him toward the door. “We all know the rules.”
“I don’t.” He tried to walk back to the TV room. “I wasn’t done.”
“You can read them later. I wanna show you your room.”
“Okay. But only because I stink.” He lifted his arm and sniffed his own odour. “I need a change of shirt.”
“No kidding.” I pushed his arm down.
“Now, Sam,” Dad’s voice absconded into the entrance.
“Why does she get to stay home?” Sam said, and I imagined him pointing off in some random direction as if pointing at me—the ‘she’.
“Because she has a friend who just arrived.”
“There’s always some excuse. It’s like she never goes to school.”
Mike rested his forearm on the balustrade, half laughing, and looked at me. “You never go to school, huh?”
“Not a lot.” I kicked up the carpet at the base of the stair.
“How’s it been—” he nodded toward the dining room, “—having a little brother?”
“Not much different to putting up with you.”
He laughed and looked around, his eyes taking in the stairs, then the window above the front door, and landing back on me. “I like this. It’s a nice house, Ara. It’s good to see the places you’ve been talking about all your life.”
“Well, later I’ll show you where I landed when I broke my arm that time.”
“Sounds good.” He tugged on a strand of my hair, making me lower my foot from the first step to look up at him. “I really missed ya, girl.”
“I know,” I said, and my eyes moved slowly from his camel-skin boots, over the light denim jeans and traced swerves over the ripples under his shirt, stopping in a hold on his warm eyes. The caramel colour had always reminded me of autumn—once my favourite season—but there would have to be a different comparison for his eyes now that my autumn would forever be a reminder of losing David. Maybe…
“Ara?”
“Hm?” His face blurred and sharpened into focus.
“Did you hear anything I just said?”
“Um—”
Mike’s shoulders dropped and he nodded to himself. “Come on, why don’t you just show me upstairs?”
I knew he was upset. I didn’t want him to be upset. “No,” I said, flashing him a cheeky grin.
“Ara. Come on. I’m tired. I’m not in the mood for games.”
My brow arched. “Race you?”
And the mask cracked, bringing warmth back to his eyes. “Ah, forget that,” he said, taking a quick step toward me. “This is more fun.”
“No!” I squealed, rapping my fists on his leg as he swept me up like a football, legs kicking behind us, and bolted up the stairs. “Put me down!”
“Make me.” He laughed over my protest, so I angled my head just so, and bit his thigh. “Ow!”
I landed on the carpet on my hands and knees.
“I can’t believe you just bit me.”
“I can’t believe you just dropped me.”
“Sorry. Defensive reaction.” He rubbed his leg.
I stood up, dusting myself off and we both held eye contact for only a second before laughing. “Truce?” I held up my pinkie.
“Truce.” He linked his with mine, then pulled it close to his body, wrapping his other hand behind my head to bury my face in his chest. “Come here, you.”
“Yeah. I missed you, too.” I patted his back a few times then stepped away.
“So—” He looked from one door to another. “Which one’s my room?”
I pointed to the spare room.
“Which one’s yours?”
I nodded to the one behind him; he took a look, then hobbled over to his door, his hand firmly on his thigh.
“Oh, grow up, Mike. I didn’t bite that hard.”
“How do you know?” He stood tall, dropping the act. “I might need a tetanus shot.”
I wanted to whack him, but knew it would start the war all over again. So I took the moral high road instead and opened his door for him, ruffling his hair as the light from his room swept the carpet by my feet. “Does poor baby need a cuddle?”