“He does not like it when I talk too much.” She blows out a breath. “I’m not having a baby this time. I’m having a demon spawn. I know I called Dani a demon spawn when I was pregnant with her too, but I think I mean it this time.”
“Oh my god, there are two of you?” Keisha’s in the doorway, in a feathered jumpsuit today—bright neon blue feathers, for the record—and she’s clinging to Marshmallow’s leash as he tries to get to Hyacinth.
Or me.
Or the clay.
“The clay!” I shriek.
I let Hyacinth go to leap back across the room and kill the power to the pottery wheel.
“Oh my god, you’re Keisha Kourtney,” Hyacinth whispers.
“Is that some kind of weird smeared penis art?” Keisha says. “Dude. I do not understand straight women.”
“It’s a cup,” I reply.
Though, as I stare down at the stopped wheel, it does not, in fact, look like a cup.
It looks like a semi-flattened crooked penis that needs to see a doctor.
“I’m not the greatest with pottery, but I love how it feels in my hands,” I confess.
“That’s cool, but if that’s also how you treat Hayes’s penis, I don’t want to know, okay? Oh, hello. Didn’t know we were doing the touching thing, but it’s cool.”
“You’re real.” Hyacinth pokes Keisha in the feathered arm again. “You’re not some kind of mirage or hologram.”
“Keisha, this is Hyacinth. She’s my twin sister.”
“And here I thought she was your illegitimate love child with yourself.”
I tilt my head. “Are you and Millie fighting?”
She glares. “No. Yes. Maybe. Do you know your dog weighs more than I do and he’s trying very hard to get in there to eat your clay penis and a little thank you, Keisha, goddess of the sky and feathers and felines would totally be in order here right about now.”
“Marshmallow. Go catch a butterfly,” Hyacinth orders.
Marshmallow plops back on his haunches and grins a doggie grin at her.
“Why didn’t that work?” Hy whispers.
“He only takes orders from Hayes now. Or sometimes from the chef. Watch this. Marshmallow! Who wants a steak? Who’s a good boy who wants a steak?”
My dog tilts his head at me like I’m speaking bear to a penguin, then lifts a paw to flick at the door handle on the art room like he wants to look behind it and see if Hayes is hiding there to play.
“Why’s he on a leash?” I ask Keisha.
“I offered to take him for a walk, but the only place he wants to go is upstairs to check on the progress in the bedroom. And god knows if Hayes wants that room finished, he should probably let the dog pick the decorations. Damn man won’t make a decision, and I’ve had it up to here with Aunt Gio telling me I’m wrong about what he’d like. Hayes would love a disco ball in his bedroom, and I paid for it, so what’s the big deal?”
I wipe my hands and give her a sympathetic smile while I ignore her comments on the disco ball. “What’s up with you and Millie?”
“She says I’m overdramatic. Can you believe that? I literally get paid to be dramatic. Sometimes I have to overdo it to stay current. And we’re touching the feathers again. Honey, I can afford a new jumpsuit, but you’re filthy, and it takes about six months to have every one of these sewn on by hand, so can you maybe wait for the touching until I’m back in silk or glitter polyester?”
“Sorry.” Hyacinth snatches her hand back from Keisha’s outfit again, but she still keeps staring. “You’re just so…real.”
“Hy, where’s Hayes?” I ask.
“At the office. He put me in a helicopter. And this big scary guy stared at me the whole time.”
“Probably thought you were gonna pull a Marshmallow and try to open the door mid-flight,” Keisha says. “Are you both ready to hit the spa? Millie hates the spa, and I have to let her stew while she thinks I’m stewing too. I’ll send her a new Porsche and it’ll all blow over—she can’t resist a good Porsche—but right now, I need someone wrapping my body in seaweed and telling me my pores are gorgeous.”
“If Fran?oise has any seaweed in the kitchen, I could do it for you,” I offer. “I have good clay for masks, and your pores are gorgeous.”
Keisha’s face goes three shades past horrified. “Begonia, I like you a lot, but suggesting DIY spa days in these parts of the social ecosphere is like asking me if I know who Elvis Presley is. You don’t ask, because you just know the answer.”