“We wasted so many years,” Cara says dramatically, as though she’s performing Shakespeare on stage, and I wince. “We don’t want to waste another single day together.”
Mel snorts. “Are you knocked up?”
“No!” Cara looks shocked. “If I was pregnant, would I do this?”
Then she tries to drink more wine from her empty glass.
“Time to go home, ladies,” I declare, because somebody has to take charge and it certainly can’t be either of them.
“Are there snacks in your car?” Mel asks.
“Only Penelope’s doggy snacks.”
She considers that for a few seconds. “Are they peanut butter flavored?”
“Cheese, I think.”
“Ooh, cheese,” both women say at the same time, and I see I’ve made a crucial mistake.
Two weeks ago, I was a boring but successful businessman with a plan to execute a real estate transaction. Now I’m a guy who’s got to get two very drunk women—one of whom I’m marrying in nine days—into my car and home while fending off their attempts to eat my dog’s artificial cheese snacks.
I see a roll of doggie waste bags and take a couple in case one of them throws up. It’s not a perfect system, but being proactive can’t hurt. I slip them into my pocket just in case.
“Cara, he’s stealing your poop bags,” Mel says in a really loud whisper.
“Once we get married, they’ll be our poop bags,” Cara replies in a ridiculously dreamy voice.
“See!” Mel elbows Cara, who falls over. “He’s only marrying you for your poop bags. I knew it!”
“Do you have video cameras in here?” I ask Cara as she pushes herself back to a wobbly version of upright. I hope she does, because I’d love to have a copy of this video.
“Why?” Mel’s eyes narrows. “We don’t need video. I’ll testify against you in court. And everybody will believe you stole the poop bags because you’re a Reilly.”
Ouch. She’s probably not wrong, but it’s not a pleasant thing to hear. I don’t bother explaining the video question because she’s probably too drunk to listen. And I don’t tell them I want the poop bags in case they vomit because I don’t want to manifest that mess.
Luckily, I’m parked right outside the shop. Mel makes me carefully wrap the empty wineglasses before putting them in her tote. Based on their giggles and difficulty navigating the act of standing up and looking natural, I’m surprised to find only the one empty wine bottle. I’m guessing neither drinks very often.
I end up putting them in the back seat together rather than having Cara sit in front with me. One, Penny’s car seat is still buckled into the shotgun seat and two, if anybody’s going to be sick, I’d rather not have the wine’s reappearance splashed on my dash and center console.
“Drop Cara off first,” Mel commands as I pull away from the curb, poking the back of my shoulder.
“You live closer.”
“She has to pee.”
I sigh, digging deep for patience. “We literally just left her shop.”
“I didn’t have to go then,” Cara says.
I surrender because it’s easier than arguing with two intoxicated women. It’s not as though I’d be having quality conversation with Cara anyway. She’s currently telling Mel all about my dog and how gorgeous Penelope Louise is.
“We should steal her as payment for the poop bags,” Mel says, again in that really loud whisper.
“I can’t. It’s in the prenup,” Cara says, and when my eyes flick to the rearview mirror, I see her put her finger over her lips.
“Prenup?” Mel shrieks, just as I pull up to the curb in front of the Gamble house.
“I have to protect my ass,” Cara says. “No, wait. My assets. Okay, have to pee. Love you, Mel. Thank you for the ride, Hayden. Five stars.”
