I want to laugh at him, but don’t. There’s no reason for humiliation, only rationalization at the moment. I shake my head and tell him, “You can’t have me. Not when you’re with Cliff.”
“But—”
I shake my head and interrupt him by tossing him the second pillow on the bed. “Cover yourself up and go back to your room. Get your clothes on and meet me in the kitchen for some coffee and toast. We’ll talk about this there.”
He says again, “But—”
“Do it,” I demand rather briskly of him. “For your own good. If you know what’s best for you. And for me, of course.”
As if I swat him on the nose like a puppy dog that has piddled on the floor, he lowers his head, pouting. Darsey exits the room with the pillow covering his front side. Truth is, his backside is exposed; not that I have a problem with
