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Violet steps in front of Stevie. “Kingston was right to call us. Enough of this self-imposed exile bullshit. You’ve fulfilled your moping quota for the rest of the year.” She steps over the threshold and into my bungalow, gags, drops the bin on the floor, slaps her palm over her mouth, and retreats back outside. “What the hell is that smell?”
“Sour cream and onion chips, dirty laundry, body odor, and there might be something rotting in the garbage.”
“Right. Okay. New plan.” Violet addresses Stevie. “We get this one in the shower so she doesn’t smell like the inside of a jockstrap and take this party back to my place.” She pulls a spray bottle out of her bag and starts spritzing around me.
I cough and wave my hand in front of my face so I don’t inhale it. “What is that?”
“Menthol spray.” She nudges past me. “Get in the shower, unless you want me to drag you outside and hose you down. We have a schedule to keep, and I’ve timed everything so that we’ll be home right before the game starts.”
I want to argue, since the game doesn’t start for another three hours, but instead I do what I’m told. Also, it’s not that warm out, and being sprayed down with a hose seems a lot like something that would happen in prison.
The hot water feels heavenly, so I stand under the spray for a long time. When I’m done washing off the past few days of melancholy and sour cream and onion chips, I turn off the shower, wrap myself in a towel, and open the door. Stevie nudges Violet out of the way and thrusts a pile of clothes at me.
“Where did those come from?”
“Your closet. We weren’t sure if the hills of clothes lying all over the place were clean or dirty, so I felt like if it was hanging up, it might be safe.”
“Okay.” There’s a very solid chance something on a hanger would be clean. Or cleaner than anything lying on the floor or draped over the back of a chair. I dress quickly in a shirt I haven’t worn in three years and a pair of equally old jeans. But they don’t smell like onions, and I don’t either anymore. I brush my teeth and rinse with mouthwash to help with the bad breath, but my mouth still tastes like onions. Minty ones, though.
When I’m done putting myself together—I definitely look better, and I feel better too—I step out into my living room and freeze. “What’s happening here?”
There’s a woman I don’t recognize in my kitchen, cleaning it.
“Queenie, this is Aurora. Aurora, this is Queenie.”
She flashes me a bright smile and extends her hand. “Mr. Kingston requested I come by to help clean up.”
“King sent someone over to clean my house?” I ask no one in particular.
Aurora scans the absolute mayhem. “He intimated that you’ve been busy as of late and the assistance would be helpful.”
“Right. Yeah. Okay.” I motion to the corner of the room, where my easel and canvases are stacked. “Just don’t touch those, please.”
“Of course not. Mr. Kingston already informed me as such.”
She sounds like Mary Poppins; thankfully, she looks like a slightly younger version of my grandmother. I hope she hasn’t had to deal with our pile of sex sheets. I wonder if King does those himself. It seems like something he might take care of so someone else wouldn’t have to.
“Okay, well, thanks so much, Aurora, for tackling this. We need to get a move on if we’re going to make it to the spa on time for our mani-pedis.” Violet consults her phone.
“Mani-pedis?” I parrot.
“Kingston set up appointments so we could all go together. He thought you might need a little pampering, and we were inclined to agree.” Stevie motions between herself and Violet.
“Kingston set this up?” I don’t know why I’m even surprised by this. It’s 100 percent something he would do.
“Yup, pretty sweet, huh?” Violet grins.
And because I’m an emotional mess, I burst into tears.
“We got you, girl.” Stevie gives my shoulder a squeeze, grabs a few tissues and my purse, and steers me out the door so I can have my breakdown without Aurora witnessing it.
We pile into Stevie’s SUV; I’m in the passenger seat, and Violet sits in the middle seat in the back so she can stick her head between the seats. “You’re staying off social media, right?” Stevie asks as she pulls out of the driveway.
“Uh, well . . .” I chew on the inside of my lip when they both give me a What the hell? look.
“Oh God.” Stevie and Violet share a glance in the rearview mirror. “Queenie, rule number one is to never, ever look at social media.”
“I wanted to see how bad it was,” I mutter.
“Social media is a cesspool of angry bunnies and jealous bitches. We’ve all been raked over the coals at some point, right, Stevie?” Violet says from the back seat.
