“It truly, truly is,” I say.
Her smile grows, eyes dropping to me. “Want to put on the TV and keep going?”
“Do you?” I ask.
“I think it’ll be fun to have an ugly room for a while,” she says. “Duke couldn’t abide ugliness. Or dogs.” She perks up. “Maybe I should get a dog.” She looks to me for feedback.
“I think you should do exactly what you want to do,” I tell her.
“Let’s rob a bank,” she says.
“I think you should get a dog.”
34
SATURDAY, AUGUST 10TH
7 DAYS
Later, in the kitchen, picking over a plate of pizza rolls, Ashleigh invites me to stay with her until the Read-a-thon.
“I haven’t had a roommate other than Duke in a long time,” she says. “And this house is fucking huge. It’d be fun.”
“Speaking of the size of your house, you’ve never mentioned . . .” I trail off.
“That I live in a Bond villain lair?” Ashleigh says.
Which gives me permission to more openly call a spade a spade: “That you’re rich as fuck.”
She snorts. “I am not. Duke has cookie money.”
“Cookie money?” I repeat. “Like he knocked over a Girl Scouts truck and started a black-market operation?”
“Like, he’s the heir to a cookie fortune,” she says.
“I didn’t know cookies could have fortunes,” I say. “I mean . . . other than . . . fortune cookies.”
“Oh, yeah.” She pops another pizza roll in her mouth. “Anything can have a fortune if you’re greedy enough.”
At the look on my face, she adds, “I mean, obviously not Duke. He could’ve fought me for the house, and he didn’t. But I’m positive that if you go far enough back through his family tree, someone made a deal with the devil or, like, killed someone to get their hands on a secret recipe.”
“I look forward to their HBO drama,” I say.
She’s quiet for a moment. “You should let Miles know you’re staying here.”
“It’s not like that with us,” I remind her.
“You don’t want him charging into the FBI offices, claiming you’ve been taken, do you?” she asks.
“Taken?” I say. “Like kidnapped?”
“I don’t know, whatever happens in those movies you two are obsessed with,” she says. “Like, held at gunpoint and forced to rob a museum with your highly specialized skill set, or whatever.”
“Right, I’m going to be ‘taken’ by someone who needs the inside scoop on children’s literature.”
“Just let him know you’re staying here,” she says.
“Fine,” I groan.
Staying with Ash, I type out. He replies almost instantly, k.
“There,” I tell her.
“Good.” Ashleigh tips her head toward the back doors. “Now, let’s watch something gory.”
“Real Housewives?” I guess.
“This,” she says, “must be what it’s like to be a proud mother.”
“Did you forget about Mulder?” I say.
“Just for a second,” she says. “He’s back now, though.”
On Monday night, while Miles is at work, I run back to the apartment to pack some clothes. Aside from our differences in personal style, Ashleigh’s both shorter and curvier than I am, and even the slouchy jersey dress she lent me for work today managed to hang from my chest like two deflated balloons.
