Chapter 32
THIRTY-TWO
Bopping the bean
LILA
My vision blasts a hole through the book on my lap, although I haven’t read a single word. To be honest, I don’t know what book it is. After my snooping fail, I just grabbed one and fled the room like it was on fire.
Two unread texts taunt me from the coffee table where I’ve set my phone. Sadly, I can’t ignore them forever. The glimpse I got via notification pop-up detonated an anxiety bomb in my gut.
Big girl panties, Lila. Hoist ‘em up.
Determined to impersonate an adult, I unlock my phone.
Kenzie:
What the fuck is happening? Reed called and ordered me to stay inside with the doors and windows locked. Are you still with him? He wouldn’t explain. Tell me where you are, and I’ll come pick you up.
How about no?
“Maybe the other one will be easier to handle,” whispers the Michelangelo of Delusion.
With trembling hands, I swipe to the other unopened text.
Silas:
Tonight instead. Midnight. Same place.
Let me check something.
Ah, nope. A midnight meeting in an abandoned parking lot with a man involved in a gory murder isn’t on my bingo card. I’ll have to decline.
My imagination concocts a carousel of murder scene images. Each of them progressively more horrific. Reed, an experienced FBI agent, called it the stuff of nightmares.
And those monsters had Kenzie. Although I’m livid over what she did, I still love her.
Thankfully, she wasn’t sexually assaulted, and her physical injuries have healed. But the only friend I’ve had for more than a fleeting moment—the person I love like a sister—was at risk of death because I was dumb enough to get involved with Silas.
The mountain of guilt on top of me is eroded by her betrayal. I can’t sort out these emotions, let alone manage them. My chest constricts like a thick band cinching around me. Every time I think of her, it tightens.
I can’t deal. It’s all too much for one broken woman to handle.
Reed’s confessions.
Kenzie’s betrayal.
The crimes I committed to save her.
The grave danger.
Reed’s secrets I uncovered in my totally harmless exploration.
It’s all propelling me to the end of my rope.
Too bad I don’t have a rope. I have a clown handkerchief string. Right when I think I’ve reached the end, another one appears.
Forever until I die.
With my arms wrapped around my knees, I involuntarily rock myself. I’m a mess.
If Reed gets home and sees me like this, he’ll be forced to lock me up for one of those involuntary holds.
Aww, crud. That reminds me of something else to spiral over.
Reed will be back eventually. While I’d love nothing more than to wrap my terrified body around him for eternity, that’s impossible. Instead, he’s gonna pry the truth out of me.
Then we’ll be over. Again. Heart in shambles, I’ll be incarcerated. Silas probably has a baddie on his payroll named Maniac Muffy, who will shank me in prison.
Springing off the couch, I pace the living room like I’m way behind on a step challenge.
After twenty minutes, I give up and flop onto the couch, sucking wind. Turns out, impersonating a speed walker doesn’t offer much anxiety relief when you’re at rock bottom.
The next person who tells me exercise is good for managing stress is getting my angry eyes. Maybe I’ll kick some dirt in their direction too.
To the empty room, I whine like a pathetic sap. “If only there were a pill I could take that would chill me the frick out. They can put a man on the moon but can’t . . .“ The cliche fizzles on my tongue.
Eureka!
I scamper across the room to retrieve the little savior Kenzie slipped into my purse. Thankfully, the anxiety-relieving gummy is right where I left it, hidden in a mint tin.
“Help me, Delta 9, you’re my only hope.”
While chewing it, I grimace from the unusual taste. As I chase it down with some water, I realize I’ve been hanging out with an FBI agent while carrying a gummy of questionable legality.
And I’ve now consumed it inside his home.
But wait. There’s more. Given my embarrassingly low tolerance for anything mood-altering, I’ll be drooling all over him when he gets home. Not in the sexy way.
He’s gonna make me pee in a cup, I just know it. That’s the only thing this day is missing—me, handing my urine to the man of my dreams.
Pause. Rewind. Is there a sexy way to drool on someone?
I’ll never know. Given Florida’s puritanical status, I don’t have access to enough porn to answer that question.
Nestling into the couch, I wrap myself in a blanket and take comfort in the knowledge that relief is coursing through my bloodstream. Netflix keeps me company.
Twenty minutes later, I convince myself this gummy is a dud.
Thirty minutes after that, I decide I was a bit too hasty.
Warmth traverses my body, and my thoughts steadily become less oppressive. My mouth is weirdly thicker than it was a few minutes ago. Other than that, I feel sober.
The chirp of my cell phone signals an incoming text. Shockingly, I’m not compelled to curl into the fetal position. Perhaps the gummy is working. Either that or it’s a placebo effect. Still counts.
Dirty Dimples:
Checking in again. I should be home in about two or three hours. You still good?
Me:
Still alive.
Not funny.
It would be if you had a sense of humor. Alas, you’re the man you are.
I snicker to myself while swiping to Silas’ message. I hastily fire off a reply.
Me:
No longer interested in meeting with you. Have the life you deserve.
My shoulders shimmy involuntarily. Take that, vagrant.
Inspired by the THC-induced confidence, I reply to Kenzie next. Might as well check everything off my list before I return to flustercluck status.
For those who don’t self-deprecate whimsically, that’s a flustered chicken.
Me:
Don’t worry about me. I’m safe.
Even with this gelatinous aid, the mere idea of her thinking I was too snippy hits me right in the feely thing in my chest. After staring at the screen for what feels like a super long time—is time moving slower, or is it just me—I send a follow-up message.
Me:
Please stay safe and do whatever he said. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.
“There. That’s better.”
Why am I speaking aloud? I’ll blame the gummy while ignoring that I was doing it before taking it. Facts are dumb.
“With so little experience spending time alone, I don’t know whether to be concerned.” I narrow my eyes, feeling a tinge of resistance from my lids. “That’s probably nothing to worry about. The eyelids, I mean. But also the other thing.”
Whatever the other thing was.
Oh.
“Talking to myself. Is it a mental breakdown or just good fun? Find out at eleven.”
Meh. Who cares? Concern over my mental health is at the bottom of my Crushing Agonies list.
“I’ll just pretend there are friendly ghosts here to listen to me.”
No response.
“Casper? Can I call you Casper? You are friendly, right?”
A rambunctious giggle erupts from me as I envision Mr. Grump Face Dirty Dimples returning to find me talking to ghosts.
I glance at my hand, noticing I’m still holding my cell. I impersonate the emoji I sent to Reed earlier, sticking my tongue out at the phone. Surely, Kenzie and Silas will feel my disrespect through the interwebs or satellite signals.
More laughter fills the room, presumably from me. However, the ghosts are still a possibility.
Screw Kenzie and Silas.
Neither snake has replied to my texts. Normally, I’d be worried they were mad at me and spiral into a co-dependent depression. Tonight, I’m so dang chill I’m unable to give two ships.
Too bad I can’t ask Kenzie where she procured these little guys. Not that I want to develop a drug habit, but this is the most fun I’ve had alone since I bought my first vibrator.
Maybe Reed has some drug contacts- because I don’t want to ask Kenzie for anything ever again.
Standing, I rub circles on my belly, thus conveying my hunger to the ghosts. In case they missed it, I add, “Yo, mute ghosts. It’s snack thirty.”
Giggle.
Out of habit, I head straight to the produce drawer in the fridge. Reed has plenty of healthy options. All of them fresh and perfectly edible.
And entirely unappetizing.
“Bleh. That’s not what my tum tum desires. Now, I have to deal with the guilt of willfully choosing a bad option. Alas, the munchies want what the munchies want.”
The ghosts don’t respond. I’m beginning to think they don’t like me. I throw the bird finger over my shoulder at them, wiggling it from side to side to ensure they get a good look.
My spine stiffens reflexively. I bring my hand in front of my face, keeping my fingers in the same position for inspection.
Will you look at that? I used an actual bird gesture. Not a PG one. The one that’s the non-verbal equivalent of the F word.
I sort of love that for me.
“So vulgar,” the ghosts exclaim with disdain.
Sike. That was me. Ghosts aren’t real, you dwat.
“What’s a dwat? Is that like a daft twat?”
I just said twat. Out loud. I’m on a roll.
If my uncle isn’t one of these ghosts, he’ll be livid.
That fucker.
“Rest in Hell, unc. You aren’t so scary without your soap, are you?”
I hoist my newly feathered bird finger righteously in the air, channeling the confidence of a mediocre white man on the internet. “Nobody liked you. On the entire planet. And I hope Satan made you his little bitch.”
I snort laugh into my collapsing, cursing hand, which triggers raucous guffaws. Bending at the waist, I crack up until I forget what was so funny to begin with.
Cussing is fun. I’m so warm.
And totally high.
Feigning sobriety, I rifle through the fridge, taking out anything that looks good. I end up with a brick of mild cheddar cheese, a bottle of ketchup, and a tub of sour cream.
“Not quite the makings of a gourmet meal, huh?”
The ghosts continue playing dead. Classic ghosts.
Spinning around, I fling open cabinets to locate the pantry. I find my target behind door number three.
My vision rocks somewhat as I scan Reed’s dry goods offerings. Crackers. Check. A jar of olives. Check. Onto the counter they go.