“We have so many fun things planned today!” I shout through the door.
Truman’s whole body is wriggling with happiness when McCarthy opens the door again.
“Welcome to Wednesday!” I push in, bags swinging from my arms.
McCarthy glowers down at me from that impossible height.
“Why is all that shit on your mug multiplying?”
I slurp from my Stanley cup and do a little dance, sending the charms on the mug jingling and McCarthy muttering curses.
“You can’t have a bad day with a personalized Stanley cup. Look, this charm kind of looks like you.” I flick one of the jeweled charms. “Except he is happy.”
McCarthy stalks through the penthouse.
“We have a packed day ahead.” I rush after him. “Lots of fun photo opportunities.”
“I have work to do.”
“What a coinkydink! We’re going to spend some of the time at your office. After all, a crucial step of the ten-step plan is to raise employee morale! So let’s bury our negative feelings and put on our smiling public faces and—”
He looks at me over his shoulder. “That’s fucking toxic.”
“Public relations! Yay!” I pump a fist.
Truman grunts when my Stanley cup accidentally bonks him in the head.
Lips thin, McCarthy extricates Truman from my bag and sets him on the floor, where the little dog rolls on his back for a belly rub.
“I’m not petting you,” McCarthy tells him. “I don’t like you or your owner. And why does your dog smell like garlic butter, Cupcake?”
I tap him lightly with my Stanley cup. “You will not make it in prison, not with that pretty face, so let’s be pleasant to people today!”
McCarthy bares his teeth then scowls as Truman jumps up onto the leather chair then onto the desk and flops on his back.
“Being nice is how you screwed up your life, Cupcake. You have a grocery store aisle full of terrible exes.”
Finally relenting, he scratches Truman’s belly.
“Nathan isn’t an ex.”
“Not yet.”
“My fiancé, who I love very much, and I are going to spend a romantic weekend together. I love him,” I say. “He loves me.”
Hehas to.
And if he didn’t ask me how I was after the funeral, that’s because he’s worried about work and securing our future.
With thoughts of yesterday come the threat of tears. To distract myself and not let McCarthy see, I check my phone for the time, ignoring the deluge of new potentially stalkerish messages.
I pat him on the arm. “Don't worry. I'm here to wallpaper over all your mental deficiencies.”
“Mymental deficiencies?” he barks. “Cupcake, I already know more about your dating life than I ever wanted to. I could write a dissertation on your romantic delusions.”
“I don’t want to hear you accuse my fiancé of cheating on me again,” I say, warning him.
“I don’t have to. A little introspection and you’ll see I’m right.”
