Stupid, prudish phone. What the hell does “flock you” mean anyway? Why would my phone think that’s what I meant?
Obviously I had taken this no-cussing thing too far if my phone didn’t even know cuss words existed.
Clive sends me a laughing emoji, then adds,
Clive: Sorry, dear, we don't do that anymore.
Disgusted, I put my phone into airplane mode before Clive can send another text.
I would bet good money that Dr. Ramsey had made his suggestive comments just to get me out of his office.
Clive, on the other hand, knew exactly what he was doing. Clive is a hound dog. But there’s no way I’ll report him to human resources. For starters, I know Clive well enough to know he said that just to get a rise out of me. That’s the kind of jerk he is, but I would bet good money he would never say that kind of thing to anyone but me.
Besides, I’m a mere lecturer. A peon to Clive’s university royalty. I’m so far down on the university totem pole I’m practically buried in the dirt.
Clive is a battle I’m not willing to fight.
Dr. Ramsey is a fight I can’t win.
Looks like I picked the right outfit after all. This sweater set is the exact shade of nausea.
Chapter 3
Holly
Iam elbow deep in orange-scented bathroom cleaner and rubber gloves when my African gray parrot, Iago, starts cussing at me.
“Fuck off!” he shouts from his cage in the living room. Repeatedly.
This isn’t a good sign.
Iago has anxiety issues, but he only cusses at strangers. Which means there’s someone at the door. Since it’s nearly ten at night, I can’t imagine who.
Normally, I am not a cleaning-at-ten kind of girl, but I have a home visit from the foster-to-adopt social worker coming up. I have a lot of decluttering and organizing to do between now and then, but those activities take more brain power than I have at night. I can scrub a toilet when I’m tired, so that’s when I do it.
I don’t have time to mess with a visit from anyone right now, nevertheless, I strip off the gloves, rinse my hands in the sink and go investigate. Skip and Lou, my dogs, are huddled by the door, tails wagging eagerly, which explains how Iago knew there was someone there even though no one has rung the doorbell.
“Who’s there?” I ask the dogs.
They look at me, then at the door, and then back to me. Lou wags her tail so forcefully she knocks Skip over. The pug normally has excellent balance despite having only three legs, but Lou, my labradoodle, is three times his size. Physics is not in Skip’s favor. He tumbles to one side and skitters around before getting his feet under him again.
Not unlike me this afternoon.
My steps slow as I weave my way through the boxes littering my living room towards the door. I’m in the middle of an epic purge and decluttering that would make Marie Kondo proud and I’m hoping will impress the social worker. Since my normal decorating style consists of mismatched thrift store finds, the additional boxes and piles of clothes just add to the overall ambiance of claustrophobic clutter. Between the boxes and the prancing dogs, the path to the door is an obstacle course.
There is only one person Lou loves like this: Clive.
Before this nonsense with the McPherson Fellowship, I could go months at a time without running into Clive, which was exactly how I liked it. Now I’d seen him twice in the past couple of weeks.
“Fuck off,” Iago grumbles miserably from behind me.
“I couldn’t have said it better,” I mutter.
And then the doorbell rings.
I live in a tiny, mid-century ranch a few miles from campus. Like all houses of that era, it’s got a big picture window looking right into the living room. Yeah, I’ve got curtains, but I’m sure Clive could see the shadows moving behind them. Besides, I’m a grown woman. I didn’t go to therapy after the divorce so that I could hide from my ex, no matter how annoying he is.
I nudge Lou aside with my knee and crack the door open. Lou rams her head against my thigh, trying to escape.
