Chapter 18
Between us, we had approximately three and a half orgasms before we collapsed in a satisfied heap. I wasn’t planning on staying
over, but before I know it, Tasha’s alarm is going off, and it’s officially Monday morning.
Somehow, I feel totally not hungover. I’m not even cursing Malort, which is a first.
“It’s the sex,” she says, nibbling my thigh. “All those good chemicals compensate for the booze.”
“Don’t tell me you’re a scientist too,” I say. “Is there nothing you can’t do?”
“I can’t be late for work, unfortunately.”
I roll over and boop her on the nose. “Then let’s get decent. Or try to, anyway.”
The downside of feeling fine is that I’m exactly clearheaded enough to remember all that really personal stuff I said last night when I thought we were having a heart-to-heart over Malort and tequila.
Does Tasha remember? Is this like when I told Chris I loved him and he made us break up a second time?
I feel the creeping dread of anxiety all over again. I don’t want to ruin this.
But also, what is this? A one-night thing? Or a thing-thing? And what do I want it to be? Are we supposed to talk about it, or not talk about it?
I’m spiraling, I can tell I’m spiraling, and all I want to do is hide under the cool paisley duvet and go back to sleep.
Get it together, Mo!
I manage to calm myself, and I even turn my head and smile at her to show off how calm and not anxious I am.
“Oh my god,” she says, pointing at my face in alarm.
I shoot up, patting my face. “What is it? Zit? Spider bite? Necrotizing fasciitis?”
“I’m so sorry, did I . . . do that to you?” she asks hesitantly.
“You did a lot of really awesome things to me,” I say, not sure where this is going.
“No, your eye,” she says, frowning.
I check myself out in the classy art deco mirror on the wall and discover I’m sporting a shiner on my right eye, not huge,
but noticeable enough.
“Nope,” I say. “Not you. It was Jacques Cousteau.”
She blinks in confusion. “The French oceanographer?”
“Ah, right. No, a poodle. Named Jacques Cousteau. He jumped into my shower, uninvited, and perpetrated a catastrophic incident.”
“Oh. Of course. That makes much more sense,” she says, snorting. She kisses the bruise gently and grabs my ass. I squeal.
“Showers are dangerous. Probably shouldn’t do it without backup.”
“You’re probably right,” I agree, and she leads me toward the shower.
Two more extremely efficient mind-blowing orgasms later, we are freshly showered but still on time. This woman is a marvel.
We share a quick kiss on her stoop, and then an awkward moment where I wonder if I should say something to sum up the last twelve hours.
“Well,” I say. “It’s been a hoot.”
Oh good.
She laughs; I blush.
“I’ll text you later, k?” she says.
“Yes!” I say. “Do that.”
And with that, I head home to walk the dogs and grab my stop sign and try not to overthink this whole thing.
Thanks to Tasha’s alarm, I report to my corner in plenty of time, even after a leisurely morning stroll with the poodles.
At some point over the weekend, the sinkhole got even bigger, and the metal plate the city dropped on top like a haphazardly
applied Band-Aid is really just doing lip service. I should probably call someone about that.
Just not right now, because I’m very busy playing back last night, moment by sexy moment.
Sure, some of it’s a little foggy on account of the number of beers involved. But I still remember plenty.
Including the embarrassing confessional moment.
Don’t think about the embarrassing moment, Mo.
Think about the sexy ones.
Right.
Back on track.
And then a pink-haired tween rudely appears out of nowhere. “Whoa, what happened to you?”
“Marlowe!” I shout. “You can’t sneak up on people like that.”
“I’m standing directly in front of you,” she says. “This is not me sneaking. You’ll know when I’m sneaking up on you. Or you
won’t, is the point. So, anyway. What’d you do this weekend? Join Roller Derby?”
“I . . . I am not telling you that,” I stammer, because right when Marlowe interrupted me, I’d been imagining Tasha doing something extremely excellent and X-rated to me, and wait—is Roller Derby a euphemism that the kids use these days?
Suddenly I’m breaking out in a nervous sweat that this literal child can read my
mind.
“Looks like somebody punched you with a tiny fist,” she says.
“OH. The black eye. Right.” I try to wipe the guilty look off my face. “No. Yeah. That was a dog thing.” I remember Sheila and my rapidly vanishing
bank account, and it’s really taking the fun out of thinking. “I have to get rid of those dogs.”
“You should make an adoption video,” Marlowe says.
“A what?”
“You know. A cool video you can post that shows off how awesome and adoptable they are. Adoption agencies love when you do
that. Animals with great reels always get adopted faster.”
I hold her back from crossing as a fire truck whizzes up the street and parks in front of the construction site, followed
by some kind of utility vehicle. Gas company, looks like.
Marlowe jogs into the street without waiting for me.
“Hey, hello, remember me? Crossing guard?” I run into the street, stop sign first, even though no one’s coming.
“I’m trying to see what’s going on over there.” She cranes her neck, but the fire truck is blocking everything.
“Probably some routine construction-related thing,” I say. “If there was a fire, I’m sure it would have its lights on or something.”
“But they stopped construction there a month ago. For safety stuff.”
“Oh, right,” I say.
“You really should pay attention to your surroundings,” she says. “As a crossing guard.”
“I am paying attention, and I’m telling you there’s no fire.”
Just then we hear some sirens, and an ambulance wedges itself next to the curb in front of the fire truck.
Marlowe gives me a look. “I’m going to go check it out,” she says.
“Marlowe, it’s just normal stuff. They probably always send an ambulance, just in case.” I put on my best grown-up voice.
“And don’t you have to go to school?”
“I’ve got ages before the first bell,” she says dismissively, jogging diagonally across the street before I can stop her.
Get your head in the game, Mo. Guard this crossing. Save those kids.
Still, that was a really good idea about making a video. And I know just who can help me. I take a quick glance around, and
it’s still pretty quiet, so I hop on my phone, just for a sec.
Me: Hey hey!
Hannah: Heeeey
Me: What’s up
Hannah: Woof they are handing out stalkers like candy these days
Me: Ha ha what tho
Hannah: You know
Hannah: You had that stalker
Me: ?
Hannah: Government guy? Who was creeping on your apartment?
Me: Him! Right! Wow that was so 3 days ago
Me: Anyway that turned out to be Chris
Me: Speaking of Chris- I had sex with somebody not Chris
Hannah: Oh wow
Me: Also, can I borrow Eva’s green screen and some other equipment? I’ll be fast, she won’t even notice
Hannah: I guess so
Hannah: Also, can we talk soon
Me: How about I call you after my shift? I’m not supposed to be on the phone right now
Hannah: K
I slide my phone back into my pocket and walk a few kids across the street, my mind bouncing back and forth.
I’m thinking about good things for once—replaying sexy times with Tasha, imagining doing it again, and fantasizing about how I’m going to make a totally fantastic adoption video that will solve my poodle problem for good—when I notice Marlowe walking back toward me, slowly this time.
I step into the crosswalk to escort her when I see the look on her face. She’s pale, her eyes wide and watery. I stop, right
in the middle of the street, suddenly terrified of what she’s going to tell me.
“It’s not the construction site,” Marlowe says, her voice so quiet I can barely hear her. “It’s Claudia. Claudia’s dead.”