Chapter 7 Operation Goodbye Earl
OPERATION GOODBYE EARL
IVY
I think the aggressively eighties, Florida-chic green floral wallpaper in Grandma Millie’s room is mocking me. It’s nearly impossible to form a full, coherent thought with the onslaught of tacky, repetitive hibiscus patterns staring at me, but I soldier on anyway.
It’ll be nice when Stephen comes into town from California and we get the remodeling started.
Once we’ve converted the room above the garage into another bedroom and added the nursery to the back of the house, I’m going to dive right into redecorating.
I’m all for shabby chic, but right now, this place is just shabby.
Tapping at my keyboard, I put the final touches on my presentation just as Delilah quietly slips past the door, a tiny white monitor with a small screen in hand.
“God, I can’t believe my kid is old enough to be reading her bedtime stories to me and not the other way around,” she half-whispers as she quietly shuts the door behind her.
Already in her pajamas, the worn, rolled-up flannel pants sit low on her hips, showing off a small sliver of tan skin below the hem of her old Fox Hole High School Gay-Straight Alliance t-shirt.
Once upon a time, the thin fabric would have shown off the jewel hanging from her belly button—a spot that I pierced for her in the cafeteria bathroom during one of our free periods junior year that miraculously never got infected—but Delilah never put the belly button ring back in after her first pregnancy.
It’s a shame. I always thought she pulled the bedazzled butterfly belly button ring off in a sexy, unironic Britney Spears kind of way.
“Do you really need the baby monitor? Sadie is almost nine years old. If she’s reading to you at bedtime, it seems excessive to listen to her all night long.”
Delilah sits on the corner of the bed and crosses one leg over the other, massaging the arch of her foot with her thumbs.
Her toenails are painted a light shade of pink that contrasts beautifully with the olive skin she gets from her father.
I wonder if she paints them herself or if she gets pedicures, and then I wonder how I can’t know that about her.
Have I really been away that long? And if she paints them herself, what will she do when she’s too pregnant to bend over? Will she let me paint them for her?
“I know, but we’ve only been staying here a few days, and she doesn’t always sleep well in new places. I’m not going to turn the camera on; I just want to listen to make sure I’m up if she has one of her bad dreams and can’t fall back to sleep.”
The sound of defeat in her tone tugs at my heartstrings, and I immediately regret commenting on her parenting choices.
I can’t even begin to imagine what it's like to go through what Delilah is going through on my own, let alone with a child.
Setting my laptop to the side, I scoot to the end of the bed and steal her foot from her.
She lies back with a contented sigh as I take over massage duty.
“You’re a great mom, Lilah. Sadie and Little Bean are lucky to have you.”
She hums, covering her face with the back of her arm.
“A great mom probably would have chosen a better sperm donor for her children.” She audibly sighs, and when she pulls her foot away and sits back up, I can see the unshed tears shining in her chocolate-brown eyes. “Am I doing the right thing, Vee?”
“You want another baby, don’t you?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“And you want this baby, right?” I ask quietly, placing my palm on the small swell of her lower belly.
She’s soft and warm, radiating heat through her threadbare t-shirt.
Not yet showing, but now that I know to look for them, I can spot the subtle changes in her body.
The way her breasts seem to fight the constraints of her bra, the rosy hue to her cheeks, the beautiful spill of skin over the waistband of her leggings that serve as proof of life growing inside her.
Delilah is gorgeous, ethereal, and I have to pretend like I don’t notice if I’m going to keep any bit of my sanity.
It's a good thing I’ve been pretending for twenty years. I’m a fucking expert at this point.
“Then you’re doing the right thing, Lilah. And I’m going to be right by your side the whole damn time.”
“Just like you always are,” Delilah grins, sitting up so she can lean her head against my shoulder. I lie my head on top of hers, her silky brown locks tickling my cheeks. She smells like strawberries and dry shampoo, and I want to bury my face in her scalp and inhale her like a drug.
But friends don’t sniff their friends' hair. And besides, Lilah and I have work to do.
“And I will also be here for Operation Goodbye Earl,” I say, patting her thigh as I pull myself away.
“Operation Goodbye Earl?”
“I was gonna name it Operation The Earl Has To Die, but I figured that wouldn’t look good if either of us had to defend ourselves in a court of law.”
“Smart.”
I make quick work of connecting my laptop to the flat-screen TV I hung on the wall this weekend since I know how much Delilah loves to watch romantic comedies in bed.
With all the cords in the right place, I turn my attention to the bed, where Delilah has curled up under the covers.
She’s lying on her hip, one bent to prop her head up in her hand while the other lies on top of the sage green comforter, her fingers drawing small circles over the side of her leg.
My mouth goes dry, but I push down the pesky reminder of attraction and pull the laser pointer I picked up in the pet section of the grocery store this afternoon out of my back pocket. Pointing the dot to the slide projected on the television screen, I begin my presentation.
“Welcome to ‘Operation Goodbye Earl’. I am your host, Ivy Ann Crowe, henceforth to be known as ‘Poison Ivy’. You,” I swing the red dot towards Delilah. “Will henceforth be known as ‘Loathsome Lilah’.”
“Why do I have to be loathsome?”
“It’s supposed to be ironic because you’re anything but loathsome. And there are no good evil words that start with ‘L’, so deal with it. Now, let’s begin. Here is what we know about Earl Ellis Booth.”
“Okay, but these are just code names for the presentation, right? You’re not actually going to expect me to call you Poison Ivy, are you? Cause I’m just about fed up with dumbass nicknames in my life.”
“Shh,” I say, pressing a finger to my lips. “Question and answer time comes later.”
I click the space key on my laptop, bringing up the next slide titled ‘Bitch-ass Earl’. Each of my items is brought up one at a time with a click of a key and its own bullet point.
“Earl Ellis Booth is a little bitch. He is a cheating, lying, conniving, sniveling little shit who fucks around behind his wife’s back despite knowing that she is the best thing that has ever happened to his otherwise sad and pathetic existence.
He is an absent father. He has never been to one of his daughter’s recitals, school plays, or soccer games.
He’s a shady businessman, and everyone who has ever had to have their oil changed or brakes repaired at his shop hates his guts.
He has an inefficient penis. Earl Ellis Booth has never once brought his wife to orgasm.
He couldn’t find the clit if someone held his hand and guided him to it.
” That point has Delilah barking out a laugh and a smirk twitching at the corner of my lips.
I actually don’t find it funny at all that the man never gave a shit about his wife’s pleasure, but the fact that Delilah can laugh about it makes me feel better.
That, and the best friend's knowledge that Lilah is a pro at finishing herself off in the shower after Earl falls asleep. I can sleep soundly knowing she hasn’t gone completely orgasm-less during her marriage, even if all her orgasms have been handcrafted, so to speak.
“And finally, Earl Ellis Booth has three great loves.” I click the spacebar to bring up his next slide.
“One, his hair. I don’t get it, but apparently the heterosexual ladies love the early aughts Brad Pitt look.
Two, his gaudy, cheap sports cars, because nothing says ‘I peaked in high school’ like leasing a Nissan Z and forgoing air conditioning in your home during the summer to afford their car payments.
And three, himself. Nothing in the world is more important to Earl Ellis Booth than his over-inflated sense of pride and his reputation.
Or his perceived reputation, as it were, since he’s oblivious to the fact that half the town already can’t stand his guts. ”
“Okay, so we know Earl is obsessed with himself and his cars. How does that help us knock him down a few pegs?” Delilah asks, and my smile unfurls across my face.
“I’m so glad you asked, Lilah.” Another click of the key, and each bullet point is struck out one by one.
“Earl weaponized your love for him against you, so the two of us will weaponize his love for himself against him. Unfortunately we can’t actually kill him.
Neither of us watches enough crime shows to get away with murder, and the state of Tennessee plays it pretty fast and loose with the death penalty.
Not worth the risk when we have kids to raise.
“But we can ruin him. I’m talking levels upon levels of petty revenge to make his life miserable.
Nair in his shampoo. Sugar in his gas tank.
Glitter in the air vents at the garage. We can hide ham and jam sandwiches under the seats of his car and let them rot.
We can print out screenshots of every shitty text message and email he’s ever sent you and paste them around town.
The possibilities are endless, Lilah. And the best part is he’ll never be able to trace it back to us. ”
Delilah sits up, intrigue crossing her delicate features.
“How would he not trace it back to us? Earl might be an asshole, but he’s not a complete idiot.”
“Ah, that’s where you’re wrong. See, Earl can speculate that we’re the masterminds behind his downfall all he wants, but the truth is that you and I are smarter, faster, and we have the backing of the town on our side.
No one is going to rat us out because everyone we know wants to see Earl fall, too.
” If my conversation with Miss Pattie today taught me anything, it’s that given the choice to take sides, Fox Hole will be on Delilah’s.
In fact, I bet I can get Miss Pattie in cahoots with us, too.
And with the acting town matriarch on our side, Delilah and I will be unstoppable.
“Oh my god,” Delilah laughs, pressing a hand to her mouth, her eyes darting back and forth between the TV screen and me. “You’re like a real-life Janice Ian!”
“Ah, Janice Ian. A lesbian and petty revenge icon for the ages, I love it.” I crawl back into bed, lying on my side to face Delilah. “If only I could arrange for Earl to get hit by a school bus. That would make this whole situation quite cinematic.”
“Maybe Bob Linden will take one for the team and hit Earl on one of his rideshare trips. His minivan isn’t as big as a bus, but it could still do some damage.”
We burst into a fit of giggles, only shushing each other when my abs start to ache.
“So what do you say, Lilah?” I ask when we’ve finally caught our breath.
“I say…fuck it. He can’t make my life any worse, can he? Operation Goodbye Earl is a-go! When do we get started?”
We hash out a few details, discussing supplies we’ll need and timelines for our recon and action. A loud snore followed by an even louder fart echos from the baby monitor on the nightstand, and Delilah covers her face to stifle her laughter.
“Oh god, the baby monitor is excessive, isn’t it?”
I scrunch up my nose and give a slight nod. I don’t think either of us needs to hear what Sadie gets up to in her sleep. Though the snore-fart combo heard through the baby monitor will make a great story for the toast I give at her wedding someday.
“Sadie is a big girl. She knows that you and I are both here if she needs us. Maybe we should think about putting the baby monitor away until Little Bean is here, huh? Hopefully, he or she will be less gassy than their big sister.” Delilah reaches behind her and fiddles with the monitor, turning it off in the middle of another of Sadie’s earth-shattering snores.
I pinch her chin between my thumb and forefinger, stroking the pad of my finger over her smooth skin.
“Sadie knows that you and I are both here,” she repeats with a contented sigh, and I watch as she seems to melt further into the mattress.
“Alright,” I whisper when Delilah’s eyes drift shut. “I’m going out to the couch. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Don’t,” Delilah murmurs, reaching out to wrap a hand around my wrist.
“Why not?” We never talked about it, but when the movers brought in the new mattress over the weekend, I quietly decided to sleep on the pull-out couch and let Delilah have the bed.
It’s a room-y King, and we’ve shared a bed countless times over the years, but since she’s pregnant, I want her to have all the comfort and rest she can get.
“It’s stupid. Stay here. Don’t sleep in the living room.”
“Lilah,” I say softly, but she just shakes her head.
“I don’t want to be alone, Vee. Please stay with me?”
The tenderness in her voice nearly melts me from the inside, turning me to goo in the way only Delilah can.
Something about this arrangement feels dangerous in a way I don’t have the words to describe, so very different from the countless times we’ve fallen asleep next to each other before.
My head is screaming at me not to stay, not to get too close and start wanting things I know I can’t have, but in the end, my heart wins out.
I’m powerless against my need to give this woman everything.
“Then I’ll stay,” I concede, the two of us fidgeting around until we’re both under the blanket. “But if you or Little Bean kick me in your sleep, I’m out of here.”
Delilah laughs and turns off the light. She’s asleep in minutes, but I’m awake for hours, memorizing the way her eyelashes flutter against her cheeks as she dreams.