“Oh, wait. There’s another note here. It says if anyone asks, he’ll be at his house all week.”
“Oh.”
Does that mean he’s not in Tahiti with Lily Frickin’ McPherson?
Or does that mean he’s at home in bed with Lily Frickin’ McPherson?
And if he is at home in bed with her, what did he do with my animals?
“Thanks, Clarissa.” I hang up.
I just sit there and stare at the Sonic menu.
Maybe a cherry limeade will help.
Right. If it was half vodka.
But how does he not get it? The pranks I played on him were fun and they were . . .
Okay. They were flirty.
When I pranked Max, I was flirting with him.
Shit.
Why hadn’t I seen that before now?
Duh. Because I’ve been in deep denial about how I feel about him.
Oh, frick-sicle.
I’m in love with Max.
Yep. A cherry limeade was definitely not going to help.
I order one anyway.
When it arrives, I just sit there in my car, drinking my cherry limeade and staring at the menu out the window.
Okay. So, I’m in love with Max.
What does that mean? Exactly?
Well, for starters, it probably explains my compulsion to make a Lily McPherson voodoo doll and then feed it to my blender. And then bury the pieces in my pets’ waste.
So, yeah, I’ve been a teeny bit jealous of the attention Max was paying her. And it also explains my panic attack and nausea today.
But what do I do with this knowledge?
Sure, life-altering personal revelations are great. Go, me.
But—the intrinsic gratification of self-knowledge aside—this gets me nothing.
Because Max obviously doesn’t feel the same way. He doesn’t love me.
Yes, he asked me to marry him, but like I told Clive, he was just trying to be helpful.
Despite what Clive obviously thinks, Max is a good person. He’s a problem solver. I have a problem, he had an easy solution.
