Jealousy Has a Folding Chair

Ben recovered from the discovery that Avery could turn into a man with surprising speed. Two days after the pillow incident, he asked Avery which human food he liked best. Avery said blackberry pie. Ben looked at me and said, “Funny. You hate sharing that.”

That should have told me exactly how helpful Ben was going to be.

The next evening he came to my cottage to work out who was covering Saturday. He took the chair beside me and turned his laptop so we could both see the schedule. At six fifteen, there was a knock.

Avery came in, took in the two of us, and went right back out. Before I could get to the door, he returned carrying a folding chair from the hallway.

He set it down across from us.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi.”

Ben tapped Saturday on the screen. “If you take the early shift, I can take the late one.”

I leaned in to look. Avery’s chair scraped six inches to the right.

Ben dragged a name to a different cell. Avery moved another six inches.

By the time we’d reached Sunday, the three of us were lined up along one side of the table, packed so tightly I had to move my elbow for Ben to type.

“Would you like me to sit somewhere else?” Ben asked.

“No,” I said.

“Yes,” Avery said.

I put my forehead down on the table. Ben waited for me to finish laughing before he closed his laptop and slid his chair away.

“Take it,” he told Avery, pointing at the folding chair. “At least this one isn’t Noah’s.”

He left with Saturday settled and Sunday in worse shape than he’d found it.

I looked at Avery, ready to ask whether he planned to follow Ben around with a chair every time we worked together. Then I saw he was rubbing his thumb back and forth along the hinge.

“Were you worried I’d rather have him here?” I asked.

“He sat next to you like he knew you’d want him there.”

“We were looking at a spreadsheet.”

“I know.” He put the chair flat on the floor. “I’d still like to know where to sit.”

It sounded small when he said it. I thought of how many times he’d asked what time I’d be home, how long he could stay, whether he could come back. I’d looked forward to every one of those knocks. Sometimes I’d been standing on the other side of the door before he made them.

I dragged the folding chair into the space beside mine.

“Here,” I said. “Next time, just sit here.”

He sat. His hand rested at the edge of the table, close enough for me to take it. I tried one finger first. He spread his hand so I could fit the rest in.

“Remember what you almost asked me when we repotted the violet?”

“You told me to start with dinner.”

“We’ve had three dinners.”

“Four if you count the leftover pizza.”

“I count it. You gave me the good slice.”

He looked down at our hands and then up at me. I’d seen him go that still before, usually right before he did something that made my shift worse and my day considerably better.

I squeezed his fingers. “You can ask the next question now.”