Failing Upward

Chapter 21 (part 1): No Place Like Home

"He is thinner than usual," Anderson said. "Probably all that sex. One hundred calories, ten times per day. Hmm. Yeah, that would explain it."

"You look like an Ethiopian poster child," Mary said from across the table, slapping more potato salad on Sherlock's plate.

Sherlock sat at the end of the table next to me with Glenda on the other side of him, refilling his glass of lemonade. By the look of Glenda's plate, she hadn't eaten much either.

"He looks fine to me," she said. I recalled Sherlock's pale legs drowning in baggy swim trunks hidden under the table. He was always slim, but I liked him that way.

Sherlock pushed the chicken leg to the other side of his plate then picked it up, inspecting all sides.

"If only your legs had as much meat on them as that chicken," Anderson cracked.

"If only Anderson's head housed a brain," Sherlock shot back along with a satisfied grin. I flipped Anderson the finger à la drumstick. Just when I thought he'd changed, Anderson goes and proves himself a true horse's ass.

I sighed at the deception on my own plate. The drumstick looked tasty. Since Mary made it, life experience told me it was not the case. I closed my eyes and bit a chunk off. I chewed and chewed and chewed . Damn, I'd never disappear.

I racked my brain for a way to hide the pots and pans from Mary. Maybe he'd eat more if Glenda or I did the cooking.

I quarantined the chicken to the corner of my plate and picked the celery out of the potato salad with my fork. Lifted the salad tentatively to my mouth. Not bad. I ate another forkful.

"Like the salad?" Mary asked. "Anderson made it."

Figures.

I scratched my bare chest and watched Sherlock suffering as he struggled to pry open his buttermilk biscuit. With a clang, he dropped his knife in frustration, leaning back in his chair.

I jumped. Something was moving up my leg. I tugged the red and white gingham cloth over my lap. Crap. I scraped my chair closer to the table. Up, up, up, Sherlock's barefoot slithered. Now how could I enjoy the potato salad with him doing that?

I slumped down in my seat. The big goof was grinning down at his plate. God no, what does he think he's doing? Inching higher, then a little higher. Oh, god, there. I loved the way my nerve endings tingled and sparked wherever he touched me. I closed my eyes and moaned.

"Will you two stop?" Mary asked. "This is positively pornographic."

Glenda raised her right eyebrow in feigned shock.

"Go to your room if you're gonna do that," Anderson said. "I've cut you both some slack after what you've both been through, but this is ruining my appetite."

"I thought the rubber chicken did that all by itself," Sherlock said.

I clapped my hand to my mouth after biting into a biscuit. "I think I chipped a tooth."

Mary's eyes squinted evilly; she wound up. A chicken thigh flew across the table and hit Sherlock in the temple.

"Ouch," he hollered, rubbing the side of his head.

"Honey, don't," Anderson said, as a biscuit hit my nose.

Mary jumped up from the table.

"That does it! I'm not making dinner again," she hissed.

"Promise?" Sherlock nursing his nose.

She slammed a carton of milk on the counter.

"They're just playing with you," Anderson called out, but behind her back he was frantically mouthing the words, "Fire the cook."