Instead of giving Layna my undivided attention, I headed into the kitchen and started unloading the dishwasher. The sudden impulse to resent her was childish, but I couldn’t help it. My afternoon escapade had taken its toll on my emotional maturity. And Layna seemed to have forgotten the horrible mess I was in—she’d already launched into her anecdote of romantic dejection without even asking how I was doing.
“I’m so mortified. There are no words for how mortified,” she said as she sat down at the kitchen table. “There I was in downward dog. When Magnus started adjusting me from behind, I thought he was being suggestive!”
I paused with a coffee mug outstretched toward the open cabinet. “Oh no—you didn’t.”
“Crabwalk right back into his crotch? I did! Only he was horrified instead of turned on. And then the session was over and I paid him a hundred and fifty bucks.” She moaned and dropped her face into her hands. “It was awful. How do men in strip clubs do it?”
“I think it makes the men feel baller to pay. Like they own their very own sexy girl, even just for a song or two.”
“I did not feel like I owned Magnus! I felt like he was pitying me for being desperate when he really just wanted to help me improve my mountain pose! How did I get this so wrong?” She started to sniffle. “And the mediation. It was awful. I’m gonna have to go to Portland and put our vacation home in Lake Oswego on the market. I want to be divorced from the douchebag. I really do. But it’s like I’m so angry and my feelings are so hurt that he didn’t think I was sexy or desirable. He just wanted me to be his chaste personal assistant while he had sex with hisactualpersonal assistant, like at work!”
“Oh, Layna,” I said, abandoning the half-empty dishwasher to sit across from her.
My phone rang. Miley O’Riley.
“Not again.” I swore, sending it to voicemail.
“Who’s that?” Layna asked, seeming glad to be distracted from her woes.
“This girl I went to high school with. She’s trying to get me to do a stand-up set at the Winter Will Never End Festival on Saturday.”
Layna smacked both palms so hard on the table my long-abandoned coffee jumped in its mug. “You should do it!”
“You think I don’t have enough on my plate?” I said. But if things weren’t going so terribly, maybe I’d want to. My new jokes about pole dancing were pretty funny. It would feel good to try them out, even in front of a dinky hometown crowd.
“Fair,” Layna said. “Maybe Shade could perform instead.”
“Stand-up?”
“No! Drag! Send me that woman’s info. I’ll ask her if she’d be interested.”
It wasn’t a bad idea. While I was forwarding Miley’s contact info to Layna, my phone dinged.
Nate:Tilly! Me again. Want to chat?
Inside me, hankering and lust muddled with sadness for what might’ve been. It was quite the feelings cocktail. I flipped my phone face down.
“Everything okay?” Layna asked.
If I shared my suspicions about the twins’ paternity with Layna and she insisted I tell Nate, it would make me furious at her. Then I’d be more alone than I could bear. Before I could decide whether to give her an edited version of my hookup or not mention it at all, a scrabbling clatter sounded behind me.
Little Sister’s rump was sticking out of the open dishwasher—the rest of the dog had vanished inside. He thrashed and flailed and yelped pitifully, stymied by the dish rack.
By the time I was on my feet, full-scale pandemonium had erupted.As the dog’s nails scrabbled against clean dishes, the twins stampeded into the kitchen to investigate the hullabaloo. I grabbed onto Little Sister’s hind end and yanked as a foul-smelling fluid reeking of rotten fish sprayed out of the dog—and all over me. I cursed and stumbled backward, dragging the dog with me. We landed in a fetid heap.
“I think his anal glands expressed,” Layna said, pinching her nose.
“We are not keeping this animal!” I shouted, and the twins burst into tears.
Layna saved the day, entertaining the kids in the living room while I cleaned the kitchen. An anxious Little Sister stuck close by while I mopped. The repetitive motion calmed and distracted me, giving my brain free range to linger on my petty annoyance that the twins thought Miranda was pretty. I leaned the mop against the wall, and grabbed for my phone, searching Instagram for Miranda’s profile, which was public. Her grid featured carefully curated shots of her interior decor sprinkled between outdoor selfies with her handsome husband. In each photo she seemed to be saying:
Look at how good my hair looks when I’m snowshoeing!
Don’t you wish you had a hot husband who would chop down your Christmas tree by hand?
Don’t you wish you could be me?
Then, in a photo of Miranda in workout gear, I spotted it: a tote bag slung over her shoulder, printed with the Pole Kisses logo.
