His nostrils flare as he nods. “Noted, don’t mention appearance or that you have toothpaste in the corner of your mouth.”
What?
Heat enrages me, and I point at the door, shouting, “Out!”
“Yup, saw that coming.” He starts to leave just as he snaps his fingers in the air and says, “Oh shit, can’t forget my deodorant.”
And before I can grasp his arm and hold him back, he moves past me and straight into the bathroom. The word “nooooooooooooo” is on the tip of my tongue as I watch him pause at the sink.
He looks back at me and then points at his shoe. “Why is my shoe in the sink?”
For the love of God, why?
Why are you doing this to me?
Especially on a day like today when I look like Shrek’s ugly friend Elmira with the third eye.
WHY?
I’ll tell you freaking why because my luck, when it comes to dignity during this season of my life, has absolutely run out. Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever had any dignity since Eli fertilized me. Nope, it was stripped away from me. Apparently, it is not only my responsibility to carry this child but to suffer wild embarrassment the entire time as well.
Fine.
I accept it.
What’s next, universe? Do I pee my pants in front of the man?
Oh God, I take that back. I didn’t put that out there. Please, please don’t let that happen. I’d never survive. Farting, sure. Puke in the shoe, okay. But peeing my pants . . . No, there’s no coming back from that.
I’m blasted right back to the present when I hear, “Fuck, what’s that smell?”
My vomit.
That is my wet vomit you’re smelling, you beautiful nimrod!
“What smell?” I ask, playing nonchalant. Be cool, Penny, be cool. This is your moment to shine. Story time. Mentally rubs hands together We are taking back our dignity! “If you’re smelling anything, then you’re probably smelling the beginning of athlete’s foot. You don’t wear socks with loafers, so mold and creep are bound to accrue. Maybe consider a different shoe, something less showy and instead, more practical.”
Oooo, good one! Not only did you deter, but you insulted the ridiculously gorgeous grossed-out man in front of you.
I move away from the bathroom, happy with my response and hoping he follows, but when he doesn’t, I know there’s a slight possibility that my story is not settling well in his head.
“That is not athlete’s foot.” I glance over my shoulder just in time for him to look closer. His eyes shoot to mine, and he asks, “Is that vomit in my shoe?”
What is he, Inspector Gadget? Jesus.
Seems as though there are brains with the beauty.
“You know, I think I’m just going to throw my hair up in a bun and get to work. If you will excuse me—”
“Penny, why is there vomit in my shoe?”
Hands on my hips and back turned toward him, I say, “I don’t know, Eli. Maybe you should check within yourself to see why there’s vomit in your shoe.”
I start to walk away, but the nimble beast scoots in front of me, halting me from my retreat. He places his large hands on my shoulders and bends in the knee so we’re eye to eye. With serious but also compassionate eyes, he asks, “Penny . . . did you throw up in my shoe this morning, then hide my shoes so I wouldn’t notice?”
“Ha.” I guffaw so loudly, I startle the both of us. “What a far-fetched, entirely factitious thought.”
“Penny . . .” He pins me with a glare.
What’s the use?
Honestly, I’ve been caught red-handed, so just deal with the consequences.
I throw my hands up in the air and surrender, my white flag waving in chagrin.
“Fine. Yes, I threw up in your shoe, and you should be happy it wasn’t one of your suit bags. Because that was a close second. And before you get all mad because that’s your lucky shoe, I would highly recommend taking a step back to realize that I am carrying child, and anything I do for the duration of this pregnancy can’t be held against me.” I fold my arms over my chest and raise my chin high. There, he has been told.
I prep myself for him to be mad. For him to moan and groan about his favorite shoes being tarnished with my technicolor—winces—upchuck. My mind forms comebacks, resting them on the tip of my tongue, ready to be fired off in defense. Like a stockade, ready to banish any emotion on his end, I mentally get in my stance, tongue ready to lash. I shall take you down, dear sir, do not mess with these hormones.
His hands move closer to my neck, and I immediately sense where this is going. There’s no doubt in my foggy, dense-filled brain what’s about to happen. That’s right, folks. He’s about to put me in a good old-fashioned chokehold for tarnishing his shoes. Gasp, I know. But I can feel it. Sense it. He’s mad about his shoe. He’s about to choke me. I can see it in his feral eyes. Too bad for his manhood, I’m two steps ahead of him. He’s going to wring my neck, but not before I get a good swift kick to the crotch ready.