Chapter 18
TEN THINGS I DON’T HATE ABOUT YOU
Heath
A merma-potamus is sitting on my face.
But it’s furry and has a motor and sometimes hisses with its steam engine.
Shouldn’t a merma-potamus have scales on its lower half?
And why does it have a motor and a steam engine?
And why is it digging its claws straight into my brain and also clucking?
Wait.
Wait.
I’m dreaming.
Nightmaring.
I’m nightmaring.
Someone groans beside me.
Someone female.
And warm.
And squished up right beside me?
I’m not real. This isn’t real. Nothing actually exists if logic stops logicking, and I sleep alone, therefore, what even am I?
“Turn off the cow,” a lady-voice groans. “Make the mooing stop.”
Mooing? “It’s a merma-potamus,” I mumble, but I don’t know if I said that out loud.
Out loud.
Motor.
Hiss.
Cluck.
Cricket.
Wine.
Cricket.
Cricket.
Oh, shiiiiiiiitttt.
This is real.
I do exist.
But what the hell did we do last night?
“Wake up,” I try to say, but my mouth is full of glue and Lav painted sandcastles on my eyelids and the cat is sprawled across my forehead hissing at something and I might have just farted instead of talking.
Shiiiiiittt again.
I finally make my mouth work for real. “Wake up.”
“Wake—oh my god!”
It’s the shriek splitting my skull that fully pulls me all the way to my senses.
And by senses, I mean into full awareness of my body, which is less flesh and bone and more a blob of aches and pains and horror and regret.
And the smallest bit of hope that if we’re in bed together, we finally did something about the way I don’t hate her at all, which is instantly followed by shame that I’d even think that I hope we had sex while we were both drunk.
I groan with the effort of prying my eyes open.
And then with a bunch of fumbling to push my cat off my head.
And what I see makes me instantly squeeze my eyelids back together. “Why are you so bright?” I moan to Cricket.
Her shirt.
Holy fuck, her shirt. It’s every neon color under the sun, all smashed together in a tie-dye design so ugly that I understand now why we found boxes and boxes of them in the gift shop when we went exploring.
They’re atrocious.
Even aliens from the planet GaudyTieDye wouldn’t wear them.
“Why am I not wearing pants?” she shrieks.
She’s probably whispering.
I just can’t stand noise right now.
The cat yowls, then clucks, and I groan again.
Why can’t I find my ears to cover them?
Do I still have arms?
Where did my hands go?
They don’t hurt, so they must not exist.
Wait.
Why is my cat clucking?
I’ve never heard my cat cluck.
“Did you take my pants off?” Cricket’s voice is raspy and thick, and I have a sudden craving for honey.
I am never, ever, ever drinking again.
For all eternity.
Did I have three bottles myself, or four? Everything’s a little hazy. I remember talking.
I remember her boobs in an industrial-looking bra.
I remember that the script tattooed on her ribs says you are enough.
I remember having a dance party with a chicken.
Dance party with a chicken?
“You’re dressed,” she says. “Ohhh, I’m so glad you’re dressed. And I’m wearing underwear. This is good. I mean, not good, but at least not worse.”
The next horror hits me with a searing pain flashing through my skull. Why the fuck am I in bed with Cricket?
What did I do?
What did I do that I can’t take back?
How bad have I fucked up my entire life?
I bolt upright, and the gelatinous mess that was my brain yesterday sloshes upside down and inside out, making my stomach give a warning heave as the entire world tilts wrong.
I blink down at myself and once again have to shield my eyes.
Why am I also wearing a tie-dyed shirt?
I don’t remember changing.
And especially not into—fuck me, what the hell am I wearing?
Are these clown pants?
I am not—have never been—this irresponsible. Not since high school.
Once I found my calling and dove into being a paramedic, everything clicked into place.
“Knock knock, lovebirds,” Pip calls as she enters through the door that leads upstairs.
Pip.
The door going up the stairs.
Where the hell—fuck me again.
I’m not in my room upstairs.
I’m in the apartment under my house.
Cricket’s room.
The cat clucks one more time.
Why the fuck is the cat clucking?
“Lavender,” I croak out.
“Aunt Pip, leave them alone,” Mabel says.
“Heath, Lavender had a sleepover in the main house. She’s fine.
You have a bunch of updates over text whenever you’re up to looking at a phone.
Also, Lav and I cleaned up as much of the glitter upstairs as is humanly possible.
She promises she’s never leaving the lids off of glitter again. ”
“Who’s talking about my clitter getting a creaming?” Pip asks.
“Glitter cleaning, Aunt Pip. Cricket, you okay?”
“Can’t locate my pride, but that’s nothing new,” Cricket says from somewhere that’s not the bed.
I wince as I look around, wondering who decided on this god-awful blinding white paint and the white cabinets and the white appliances for this apartment.
It makes my soul hurt.
We’ve gone past body and brain pain and into soul pain.
“Are you hiding in the shower?” I rasp out.
“No, the chicken’s in the shower,” comes the answer from behind the half-closed bathroom door. “Only one occupant at a time. Why can I hear you so clearly? Oh, shit, is the door open?”
It clicks shut.
Pip’s grinning at me.
Fluffy’s scowling at me.
Mabel’s straight-faced.
“Why the fuck are you all in my house?” I ask in caveman grunts.
“You texted last night and said to let ourselves in if we hadn’t seen you by nine,” Mabel explains.
“Oh, I’ve seen him fine, but what does that have to do with letting ourselves in?” Pip says.
Mabel ignores her this time, still looking at me, her face placid like it’s normal for me to grump and cuss at her. “If you have five minutes, I need to talk to you about a project.”
She shoots a glance at the bathroom door of the one-room apartment. “And about the chicken.”
“The—fuuuuuuck.” I grip my head.
“It’s my chicken,” Cricket calls from the bathroom.
“I found her. I’m keeping her. If that’s okay.
Or even if it’s not okay. We need chickens.
I like chickens, and it’ll cut down the egg costs.
Unless she’s someone’s lost pet. Or if she wants to be free.
Then—then I’d cry, but I want what’s best for everyone. ”
“I’m unaware of anyone who keeps chickens for pets, but I can ask around,” Mabel says.
“I won’t keep her if it’s too much trouble.” Cricket’s voice is getting smaller, and that pisses me off.
“You leaving anytime soon?” Mabel asks.
There’s a long, long, long pause, and then, even quieter, “I would prefer to be useful and stay at least through the wedding.”
“We’ll figure it out then. But you’re responsible for her.”
“Really? Can I get her friends too?”
“If you want to take on a project that helps feed us, I have no objections.”
“I don’t have a lot in savings, but I have my last paycheck, and you can have it all,” Cricket says.
“And I’m looking for a job. I’m even working up to maybe listing pictures of my feet on that one site and spreading rumors that they’re mine to see if I can get some subscription fees coming in until I find a real job again. ”
“We’ll work something out,” Mabel replies.
It’s what she always does.
She probably knows a chicken rescue place that would take the hen if Cricket leaves without her.
And she probably has an idea of how Cricket could sell pictures of her feet.
I start to growl to myself.
I don’t like that idea.
Mabel turns her attention back to me. “You gonna make it?”
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, breathe for a minute to keep myself from puking, and vow to never touch red wine again.
Pip’s grin slides into a scowl. She’s wearing clothes this morning, but just barely. Her emerald-colored shirt is cut so low between her breasts that I can almost see her belly button, and her short shorts don’t leave much to the imagination.
She gets props for the pink feather boa though.
It’s a soft enough color that it doesn’t hurt my eyes in the way that makes me want to hurl, though there’s something sparkly on her cowboy boots that I don’t like, and her short platinum hair seems more today than usual.
“What?” I say to her as the scowl gets deeper.
“Those are Dean’s pants. I hid them so I’d never have to see them again.”
I look down at the rainbow-striped horror on my legs. “Was he a clown for kids’ birthday parties in his spare time?”
She grimaces, but then starts to smile. And that smile grows.
And grows.
And grows. “Now that you mention it… He was. Favorite hobby. Always dressing like a clown.”
It was not his favorite hobby. She’s rewriting his history to get even with him. And that would be funny if I was in a place where I could think anything’s funny. “Should’ve donated them to a circus if you didn’t want to see them again.”
Mabel smiles too, and she doesn’t even try to hide it.
“Am I amusing, or are you laughing at my pain?” I ask her.
“You’re amusing. And I don’t think I’ve ever seen you drunk before. Or heard you cuss this much.”
“I’m not drunk. I’m hungover.”
“You were drunk last night when the two of you marched through the vineyard rocking all the wrong words to old Half-Cocked Heroes songs.”
“We did that on purpose,” Cricket calls. “In honor of the penis game.”
I look at the bathroom door, suddenly irritatingly aware that I need to take a piss.
I blow out one long, slow breath, then push to my feet.
Not quite steady, but I think I can make it upstairs and get myself food and coffee.
“Heath?” Cricket adds.
“Yeah?”
“Thank you for a fun day yesterday. I’m glad we both woke up with clothes on.”
“Are you hungover?” I ask her.
“Nope. I have a liver of steel. Best thing ever passed down from my family.”
“Fuck,” I mutter again.
Gotta get all of my fucks out before I see Lav again.
“Coffee’s already on upstairs,” Mabel says. “Had a feeling you’d need it.”
“Why’d you give the toffee to the bears?” Pip asks.
“Aunt Pip. Upstairs. The coffee is on upstairs. Let’s go. Give Cricket some space.”
“And Heath too?” I mutter, annoying even myself by talking about me in third person like I’m someone else.
Right now, I’d like to be someone else.
Someone who didn’t consume a year’s worth of wine in one day.
And wake up in bed next to a woman who’s growing on me by the day despite my best efforts to not like her.
But yesterday—yesterday was fun.
Possibly exactly what I needed.
With exactly who I needed it to be with.
“Once I personally witness you walking steadily or going back to bed, you also get some peace,” Mabel says.
“Lav—” I start again.
She grips my arm, steadying me as I pass through the doorway to the stairs. “Lav’s having the time of her life helping Samantha and Olivia bake this morning. We’ve got her. You take care of you, yeah?”
“The project—”
“It can wait a few hours for you to feel better first.”
“Thank you for everything, Mabel,” Cricket calls from the bathroom. “You—you’re the best sister I’ve ever had.”
Mabel blinks fast, but I still spot the sheen temporarily coating her eyes. “Then you must have really sucky sisters.”
“Huh. You’re right. They’re a lot like my parents. Apples and trees, right? I’ll think of a better compliment soon since it doesn’t take a lot to be better than they are. But I need to go walk The Cluckinator. I’ll get back to you on the most amazing compliment that you definitely deserve.”
Cricket’s a good person.
She’s a good person in a shitty situation still trying to find her way, and I like her.
Yes, I like her.
Entirely too much.
Good thing I’m moving.
Because I still don’t want to like her, even if I can acknowledge that I do.