Page 59 of ClickBack

“How many people sleep here?”

“One. Two tonight, if one of them stops counting pillows.”

He points from the standing fan to the ceiling. “Two fans and three blankets.”

“The blankets will make sense at three in the morning. The fans are between me and my hormones.”

He accepts that and looks around. I am suddenly conscious of things I stopped seeing years ago. The little glass dish on the dresser. The books stacked beneath the lamp. Zion smiling out of the school portrait I paid too much to enlarge.

Jarrett stops in front of it.

“That’s a big-ass picture of Z.”

“Watch your mouth around my grandson.”

“He can’t hear me.”

“His spirit is present.”

“That’s what I’m concerned about.” He considers the photograph. “How you supposed to handle grown-people business with that boy looking proud of you?”

“Do not touch that picture.”

He lifts it from the hook and carries it into the hall. Carefully, which somehow makes it worse.

“Put my grandson back.”

“Before I leave. He doesn’t need front-row seats.”

I am laughing when he returns, which deprives me of any authority I might have had. He notices the silver iPod in its dock and points at it.

“Yes, it still works,” I tell him.

“I was going to ask if I could turn it on.”

“Oh.”

“Hostile environment.”

“Use the playlist that’s there.”

He does. Music fills the room, familiar enough that I know the next song before the first has ended. Jarrett comes toward me, and I take hold of his shirt again.

“What were you doing?” he asks.

“Before you got here?”

“Before you sent the pin.”

“Cleaning.”

“At this hour?”

“I was trying not to call you.”

His amusement softens. I could leave it at that, let him supply the part I have made plain enough with the invitation. Instead, I look up at him.

“I wanted you.”