Colin took the twelve-pack over to what passed for a kitchen in my apartment, a few square feet of linoleum at the end of the living room with a fridge, stove, and sink and a narrow island separating it from the rest of the room.
He started pulling off cans and stashing them in the fridge with the ease of someone who felt completely at home in any space I lived in, whether or not he'd spent much time there.
"So," Colin threw over his shoulder. "What is the emergency? And am I going to need the machete, or just the beer? Girl trouble or real trouble?"
His tone stayed light, but I heard the undercurrent of legitimate concern.
"Real trouble." My tone was the verbal equivalent of dropping a brick on your toe.
