My heart squeezes tight, the back of my nose tingling like there’s too much of something building in my skull and it’s starting to seep out.
“Oh no,” she says, looking back into the mirror. “It just occurred to me: what am I supposed to say when Bea and Tala ask to dye theirs into unicorn tails? Or shave their heads entirely?”
“You say no,” I say. “And then, the next time I’m babysitting, I’ll hand over the dye and clippers. Afterward I’ll teach them how to roll a joint, like the sexy, cool, fun aunt I am.”
Libby snorts. “You wish you knew how to roll a joint. God, I miss weed. The maternity books never prepare you for how badly you’re going to miss weed.”
“Sounds like there’s a hole in the market,” I say. “I’ll keep an eye out.”
“The Pothead’s Guide to Pregnancy,” Libby says.
“Marijuana Mommy,” I reply.
“And its companion, Doobie Daddies.”
“You know,” I say, “if you ever need to complain about your lack of weed, or pregnancy—or anything else—I’m here. Always.”
“Yep,” she says, eyes back on her reflection, fingers back in her hair. “I know.”
5
MY PHONE BUZZES with an incoming email, and Charlie’s name is bolded across the screen. The words distracted by two gin martinis and a platinum blond shark flash across my mind like a casino’s neon sign, part thrill, part warning.
I don’t want my work email to get flagged, but there are so many excerpts of this book I can’t unread. I’m in a horror movie and I won’t be freed of this curse until I’ve inflicted it on someone else.
Technically, Charlie already has my phone number from my email signature; the question is whether to invite him to use it.
Pro: Maybe there’d be a natural opening to mention I’m in Sunshine Falls, thus lowering the risk of an awkward run-in.
Con: Do I really want my professional nemesis texting me Bigfoot erotica?
Pro: Yes I do. I’m curious by nature, and at least this way, the exchange of information is happening over private channels rather than professional ones.
I type out my phone number and hit send.
By then it’s time for my check-in call with Dusty, a twenty-minute conversation that might as well just be me playing jock jams and running circles around her, chanting her name. I throw the word genius out a half dozen times, and by the time we hang up, I’ve convinced her to turn in the first chunk of her next book—even if it’s rough—so her editor, Sharon, can get started while Dusty finishes writing.
Afterward, I rejoin Libby where she’s primping in the bathroom, curling her freshly pink hair into soft ringlets. “Let’s walk to dinner,” she says. “My neck is sore from that last cab ride. Also it made me pee myself.”
“I remember,” I say. “It made you pee me too.”
She glances over my outfit. “You sure you want to wear those shoes?”
I’ve paired my black backless sheath with black mules, my widest heels. She’s in a daisy-print sundress from the nineties and white sandals.
“If you offer to lend me your Crocs again, I’m going to sue you for emotional damages.”
She balks. “After that comment, you don’t deserve my Crocs.”
On the hike down the hillside, I attempt to hide my struggle, but based on Libby’s gleeful smirk, she definitely notices that my heels keep puncturing the grass and spiking me into place.
The sun has gone down, but it’s still oppressively hot, and the mosquito population is raging. I’m used to rats—most run away at the sight of a person, and the rest basically just hold out tiny hats to beg for bits of pizza. Mosquitoes are worse. I’ve got six new red welts by the time we reach the edge of the town square.
Libby hasn’t gotten bitten once. She bats her lashes. “I must be too sweet for them.”
“Or maybe you’re pregnant with the Antichrist and they recognize you as their queen.”
She nods thoughtfully. “I could use the excitement, I guess.” She pauses at the very empty crosswalk and scans the equally desolate city center, her mouth shrinking as she considers it. “Huh,” she says finally. “It’s . . . sleepier than I expected.”
“Sleepy is good, right?” I say, a bit too eagerly. “Sleepy means relaxing.”
“Right.” She sort of shakes herself, and her smile returns. “Exactly. That’s why we’re here.” She looks more quizzical than devastated when we pass the general-store-turned-pawnshop, and I make a big deal of pointing out Mug + Shot to distract her.