Chapter 33 The Full Tongue Treatment
THE FULL TONGUE TREATMENT
SKYLAR
I’m starfished on the living room carpet, bathrobe flared open, trying futilely to reach for my coffee cup when I hear it.
A squawking comes from the mudroom window. Sounds a little like a roh-roh-roh.
Rolling listlessly to my side, I face Simon. “Can you go check?”
He wags his tail.
“It might be the great blue heron.”
His tail thumps faster. He tilts his head, his floppy ears sweeping the hardwood.
“Do it,” I urge, nodding toward him. “I have faith in you.”
He slides over to me on his belly and drags his tongue down my face. I squeeze my eyes closed, like that’s enough to fend off the full tongue treatment. “Seriously. You’re my only hope. Do it and let me know.”
He swipes my other cheek.
I open my eyes, then lift my right arm, grunting. Or is that a whimper? Maybe it’s both. “Ungh. Ungh.” I slump back down, my shoulder smacking the wood. “I can’t. Go on without me.”
Simon bolts to attention, clambering onto my chest. “Seriously. Save yourself,” I tell him, then flail my arms around. “Your food is in the pantry. I’ll let Mabel and Trevyn know.”
The squawking grows louder. Simon barks, then licks more furiously. I fling a hand over my eyes. “I can’t. I’m too sad.”
It’s been thirty-six hours since I was dumped. And dumped rudely, with a casual you can still do your podcast send-off.
“I knew I hated him for a reason,” I mutter, but inside I’m aching. I didn’t even get a chance to argue with Ford about the split. To fight for him, and for us. He was so…certain in his stupid nobility.
I death-moan again. That earns me more licks.
“I don’t want to get up,” I whimper. The thought of answering Mabel’s messages is too much. The prospect of seeing Ford’s mom in a couple days for a wrap-up video call—her words—is horrifying. Meeting with a new client the day after that is unthinkable.
The slamming of a car door from the sidewalk catches Simon’s attention, and he shoots off me, scurrying on determined little Doxie legs to the front door, barking his head off.
“Shit,” I mutter, then push up. What if it’s Ford, and he’s coming up the steps because he forgot…
I don’t know…a lucky tie? Did he leave something here?
I already gave away the mug I let him use for coffee—the one his strong hands wrapped around the other morning.
Does he want the necklace back? The rat bastard!
I’m going to sell that necklace so hard.
Even if I only get five bucks for it, I’ll use that five bucks, buy a kale smoothie, and pour it on his porch.
Ugh.
That sounds like too much effort. I try again to reach for the coffee, this time forcing myself to sit up.
But Simon’s still barking.
I swear, if Ford comes to the door while I’m in a state of feeling sorry for myself, I will pee on a plant and leave it on his porch.
I down the rest of the lukewarm swill and crawl to the front of the house. When I reach the Captain of Barking, I peer out the front window like a Peeping Tom and then duck down, all the hair on my arms standing on end.
It’s Ford, tapping on his phone, standing next to a white Prius, looking all put together in khakis and a polo that hugs his strong arms. I hate them too.
But whose car is that? Brittany’s? Someone else’s?
The car pulls away, and he walks to his house, his lips in a straight line and his jaw set hard.
Oh. Did he just take a Lyft somewhere? To the doctor?
That should have been me taking him—the stubborn, stoic jerk.
I swipe at my eyes, my heart hurting as I look at the man I was falling in love with as he walks up the steps, wincing once, but not even looking my way. Of course. I’m second best. To hockey.
But when he reaches the top step, his gaze drifts left…and is he checking out my porch? Probably trying to avoid me. His peripheral vision surely isn’t good enough to see inside the window while I stare furtively at him.
I duck down when I hear the squawk again.
Well, I’m already halfway up. I drag myself to my feet, grab my opera glasses from the hallway table, and trudge to the mudroom, then poke my head out of the catio.
Cleo’s lounging on her corner shelf, but she deigns to glance my way, shooting me a look that says I’m fashion roadkill. Like I didn't already know that.
I scan for the heron, and my shoulders sag. “Are you kidding me?”
He was here, and now he’s flying away.
Fitting.
“No. Just no. You do not look good in a bathrobe.”
That’s Trevyn’s declaration as he shuts the door behind him and Mabel the next day.
“Well, you’re not supposed to be here,” I say defiantly, as I tie the sash of my robe tighter. At least I changed out of yesterday’s robe.
He struts in with his Labrador mix, Barbara-dor, who’s looking pretty sassy with a new pink rhinestone collar. Simon wraps himself around her legs since they’ve been friends for a while.
“Can I let them out in the backyard?” Trevyn asks.
“Now you’re asking my permission for something? You showed up unannounced.”
“Sweetheart,” he says. “You’ve barely responded to any texts. This is a welfare check.”
“Feels like an intervention.”
Mabel gives a guilty-as-charged smile. “If you call friendship an intervention, then yes. Yes, it is.”
I wave to the back porch. “I’m not going to sit out there though. Ford might see me, and that is not happening. I almost ran into him yesterday. Also, Simon’s too little to be in the backyard by himself.”
“Let me just take them outside real quick, and then we’ll let them sit on the back porch and sunbathe.”
I sigh but relent, because that is a really good idea.
There’s little a dog likes more than a sunbath.
As Trevyn heads outside—protecting me from the possibility of running into Ford—I turn to Mabel.
“I guess my brother was right. It really is messy to get involved with your neighbor. You can’t even leave your home.
I mean, imagine what it’s going to be like when I’m literally living inside here for the rest of my life. ”
Mabel gives me a sympathetic look. “You have really entered the dramatic phase, haven’t you?”
“Yes, and I’m still in the bathrobe phase, so you can see why this is a problem.”
“I’m pretty sure you’re always in your bathrobe phase,” she says, then heads to the kitchen table and pulls out a chair, patting it for me. “I think I know what you need.”
I slump down in the offered seat. “What do I need? And don’t say the podcast—I don’t know if I have the energy to do that.”
Even though it usually energizes me—talking about design hacks.
As Trevyn comes back inside, Mabel announces, “We need to redecorate.”
I go still, then slowly—like I’m transfixed—I bring a hand to my heart. “Don’t tempt me with something so beautiful,” I whisper.
“Something simple. A little forgotten corner of your brother’s place—maybe the mudroom. We can spruce it up with a mirror. Like a vintage mirror.”
I gasp. “You’re a witch, teasing me with a vintage mirror.”
“We know you love them,” says Trevyn, getting into the goading.
“I do. Like Emma Thompson loves Joni Mitchell in Love Actually.”
“Ain’t no love like that,” Mabel says.
Trevyn moves behind me and squeezes my shoulders, whispering seductively, “We could even hang a reclaimed chandelier somewhere in the house.”
I clasp my hand over my mouth, then whisper reverently through my fingers. “Healing begins with lighting. And a good mirror.”
Mabel reaches for my hand, her big eyes full of kindness as she says, “And a shower.”
Five hours later, Simon and Barbara-dor are playing tug-of-war with a stuffed alligator, and I’m wiping clean with a rag a gorgeous secondhand Turkish handcrafted tiled decorative mirror from Reflective Showroom that Amika set aside for me when I called her earlier. Post-shower, of course.
I stand back to admire it, Mabel by my side. “It makes the mudroom look bigger,” I say, smiling with pride. “Why didn’t I think of this sooner? Mirrors always make rooms look bigger.”
“It looks seriously good,” Mabel says approvingly.
“So good I’m taking a picture, and you’re adding it to your socials,” Leighton instructs, since Mabel enlisted her to join us. “We can’t let your marketing suffer just because you’re deep in your feels.”
My heart squeezes for them. I love the way they’re thinking of me even when I can’t think of anything but how much I’m still hurting over missing that jackass. But with them, I don’t feel second best.
“I love you all. So much,” I say, as Trevyn adjusts the newly acquired French chandelier behind us, then climbs down the steps of the ladder.
“Ta-da,” he says, gesturing to the antique that looks like it belongs in a French farmhouse. It was missing a few teardrops, but I fixed it quickly. This girl is handy.
“I love it too,” I say, and I’m way up in my feels now, because I stare at my friends, gathering them all close, “but not as much as I love all of you.”
They come in for a hug, and it feels like maybe I’m starting to outrun the hurt. Since they’re reminding me that I can be first…for me.