thinking? Who knew my fate was to be the undead John Dorian, MD? “So did you have any trouble finding the place?”
“Are you all right?”
“I’m a little on edge,” I admitted.
“Is that why we’re in the backyard where your puppies poop?”
“They’re not my puppies so
back off
.” I caught myself.
Steady, moron. How can you be this bad at postfuckup playing nice when you’ve had to do it a zillion times?
“And yes. We can go in if you want.”
“Are you hiding?”
“No.”
She looked—maybe I was reading into it, but for a second she went from startled to sad. “Are you hiding me?”
“No.” I wanted to reach out and give her sleeve a “buck up, li’l camper!” tug and restrained myself. “
Hide
you? Hide
you
? Jeez, not ever. Well, maybe if we were both at the same wedding trying to look hot for the same groomsmen. I might hide you then.”
(I would definitely hide her then.)
She let a few moments go by while she studied my face and, I figured, tried to decide if I was lying. So now I was the one who was a little sad. We’d gone from strangers to tentative friends to not-so-tentative enemies to a working relationship to no relationship. Now Laura was likely stuck as Satan 2.0, and we were gonna make nice over turkey smoothies. A little sad? Yeah. Like a little pregnant. I guess we were just sad.
At last she said, “We can stay outside if you want,” and I actually staggered a little in relief. And also because in my hurry to get outside, I’d grabbed my Kurt Geiger red velvet platforms, which did not go with my blaze orange parka. They were roomy enough to wear with thick socks, though, so I was once again faced with a question mankind has long tried to solve: comfort or class? At least they weren’t clogs. Though platforms were close . . .
“BabyJon’s getting another tooth.”
“Yeah, Mom told me.” I winced. This was my legal ward, my brother/son, and I hardly saw him. Worse, I felt bad that I didn’t feel worse about hardly seeing him.
“I come to see him at your mom’s sometimes. She’s nice,” Laura added thoughtfully.
“The best. Not a lot of people her age would appreciate being a de facto surrogate mother.” I wondered if that had been a genuine compliment or a dig (“Your mother, who you haven’t murdered, is nice. You’re lucky to have such a nice mom. My mom’s dead, did I mention?”) and that was the worst of the whole thing. That I truly wasn’t sure if she was being nice or not. Once upon a time, there’d never been a question.
We picked through the half inch of snow that had fallen the night before. The oak tree where I’d buried my cat (twice) loomed in the far left corner of the yard. I’d been (and was) a city girl whose idea of camping had been the Minneapolis Hyatt and roughing it meant Red Lobster, so I could never get over the juxtaposition of a street crammed with ancient homes (by Minnesota standards) that also had sizeable yards. In a time and place where people often had to choose (“Big house or big yard, can’t have both, so sorry, you should have moved here two hundred years ago.”) I knew I was lucky to have both. Lucky in everything, if I was honest with myself.
The back kitchen door popped open, crashed against the outside of the house, then rebounded closed . . . but not before Fur and Burr made their daring flight for freedom. They made straight for me, like fuzzy incontinent cruise missiles, proving me wrong, reminding me I was lucky in
almost
everything.
“Ooooooooooooooooh!” Laura oohed. “Oh they’re so cuuuuuuute they’re adorable and sooooooo cuuuuuuuuute, come give me kisses!”
“Stop that,” I said, but I was smiling. The dogs, stupid, the
dogs.
The Antichrist was kind to children and small animals. Why hadn’t I brought them out right away as an icebreaker?
They both piled to a halt at my feet and Fur instantly clamped down on my velvet-clad toes.
Oh, right. That was why.
“Oooooooooooh so
“Are you all right?”
“I’m a little on edge,” I admitted.
“Is that why we’re in the backyard where your puppies poop?”
“They’re not my puppies so
back off
.” I caught myself.
Steady, moron. How can you be this bad at postfuckup playing nice when you’ve had to do it a zillion times?
“And yes. We can go in if you want.”
“Are you hiding?”
“No.”
She looked—maybe I was reading into it, but for a second she went from startled to sad. “Are you hiding me?”
“No.” I wanted to reach out and give her sleeve a “buck up, li’l camper!” tug and restrained myself. “
Hide
you? Hide
you
? Jeez, not ever. Well, maybe if we were both at the same wedding trying to look hot for the same groomsmen. I might hide you then.”
(I would definitely hide her then.)
She let a few moments go by while she studied my face and, I figured, tried to decide if I was lying. So now I was the one who was a little sad. We’d gone from strangers to tentative friends to not-so-tentative enemies to a working relationship to no relationship. Now Laura was likely stuck as Satan 2.0, and we were gonna make nice over turkey smoothies. A little sad? Yeah. Like a little pregnant. I guess we were just sad.
At last she said, “We can stay outside if you want,” and I actually staggered a little in relief. And also because in my hurry to get outside, I’d grabbed my Kurt Geiger red velvet platforms, which did not go with my blaze orange parka. They were roomy enough to wear with thick socks, though, so I was once again faced with a question mankind has long tried to solve: comfort or class? At least they weren’t clogs. Though platforms were close . . .
“BabyJon’s getting another tooth.”
“Yeah, Mom told me.” I winced. This was my legal ward, my brother/son, and I hardly saw him. Worse, I felt bad that I didn’t feel worse about hardly seeing him.
“I come to see him at your mom’s sometimes. She’s nice,” Laura added thoughtfully.
“The best. Not a lot of people her age would appreciate being a de facto surrogate mother.” I wondered if that had been a genuine compliment or a dig (“Your mother, who you haven’t murdered, is nice. You’re lucky to have such a nice mom. My mom’s dead, did I mention?”) and that was the worst of the whole thing. That I truly wasn’t sure if she was being nice or not. Once upon a time, there’d never been a question.
We picked through the half inch of snow that had fallen the night before. The oak tree where I’d buried my cat (twice) loomed in the far left corner of the yard. I’d been (and was) a city girl whose idea of camping had been the Minneapolis Hyatt and roughing it meant Red Lobster, so I could never get over the juxtaposition of a street crammed with ancient homes (by Minnesota standards) that also had sizeable yards. In a time and place where people often had to choose (“Big house or big yard, can’t have both, so sorry, you should have moved here two hundred years ago.”) I knew I was lucky to have both. Lucky in everything, if I was honest with myself.
The back kitchen door popped open, crashed against the outside of the house, then rebounded closed . . . but not before Fur and Burr made their daring flight for freedom. They made straight for me, like fuzzy incontinent cruise missiles, proving me wrong, reminding me I was lucky in
almost
everything.
“Ooooooooooooooooh!” Laura oohed. “Oh they’re so cuuuuuuute they’re adorable and sooooooo cuuuuuuuuute, come give me kisses!”
“Stop that,” I said, but I was smiling. The dogs, stupid, the
dogs.
The Antichrist was kind to children and small animals. Why hadn’t I brought them out right away as an icebreaker?
They both piled to a halt at my feet and Fur instantly clamped down on my velvet-clad toes.
Oh, right. That was why.
“Oooooooooooh so
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