“Oh God, I’m sorry.”
Behind us, Parker asks, “You about finished
here?”
He’s not just annoyed—he sounds
pissed, and I pull away from Dylan reluctantly, wipe tears
from my eyes, take deep, hitching breaths and try to stifle my
laughter. Ellington and Henry exchange a worried glance that sobers
me up. “I’m sorry,” I say again, louder this time, and I shrug
Dylan’s arm off as I step away from him. “It just struck me as
funny, that’s all. I’m sorry.”
Dylan’s giggles taper off and I nudge him
with an elbow. “Me too,” he mumbles. “Sorry, guys. Jesus.”
Ellington gives us a withering look that
diffuses any laughter still within me, then turns and starts down
the corridor at a quick pace, Parker right behind him. Henry
watches us, waiting, but I turn slightly and whisper to Dylan, “I
told you about calling me Jesus.”
That makes him start again, a snorted
chuckle and he covers his mouth with the back of his hand as if to