Page 50 of The False Flat

“I need to call her.”

I touched her initials at the top of the text, then pressed call. It went straight to voicemail, but I got a text back: On phone with mom. Will call as soon as I’m off! Told you, didn’t I?

I told her to call anytime and apologized twice. Like Deanna, she said it wasn’t my fault.

“I have to make this right. I need to find her a job. She has a degree. I’m gonna call Chad and my mom. They’ll know someone.”

Deanna put her hand on my arm. “Wait. I have an idea.”

I eyed her with skepticism as she nodded and looked at the ceiling, a plan percolating under her hair.

“Okay, bear in mind, I haven’t completely thought this through.” She uncrossed her legs and leaned forward. “Let’s do this over dessert. Do you have anything?”

“I thought you brought dessert.”

She shook her head and put her hand on top of the unopened box. “These aren’t any good. I shouldn’t have brought them.” Her face flushed hot pink.

“What’s in the box?”

She shook her head again, held the package against her. Now I had to know.

I pried the cardboard out of her fingers and opened the lid, stared.

“Deanna, this is a box of penises.”

Deadpan, she said, “They’re penisbutter cockies.”

I looked back down at the dozen penises in my lap and started laughing.

“You know that bachelorette party that canceled? Well, the bride gave me a picture of exactly what she wanted them to look like. She seemed normal when she hired me! And I took the job because I need the money for this B and B. But you wanna know the worst part?”

I was still laughing. “This isn’t it?”

“I also made cockolate-dipped strawberries.” She was now laughing so hard I barely understood her. “And I . . . repurposed them . . . for . . . the ladies’ Bible luncheon today. A bunch . . . gray-haired ladies . . . penis-dipped fruit. Going to . . . burn . . . in . . . hell.”

“That”—I gasped for air—“really blows.”

After five solid minutes of laughing so hard we cried, we composed ourselves and each grabbed a dick.

Holding the cockie millimeters away from her lips, Deanna said, “I can’t do this.”

“Why, because they’re freakishly huge and way too realistic?”

“I can’t help it that I’m good.”

“Exactly what is your talent here?”

She took the penis out of my hand and returned both X-rated desserts to the box. “I’ll save these for book club, but that does mean we don’t have a dessert.”

“Wait.” I got to my feet. “I have the perfect thing.” I ran back to the kitchen and then returned to the living room holding a box featuring our mutual boyfriend.

“I love you,” she said, and my heart flipped as she got off the couch and headed toward me. I didn’t know what to say, how to feel. No friend had ever told me they loved me, but no one had ever invited themselves over, eaten stolen charcuterie platters, drunk borrowed champagne, made glamping plans, or tried to feed me anatomically correct pastry either.

Instead of hugging me, she did something even better. She took the box out of my hands and kissed the Cap’n square on the lips.

I relaxed and realized that somehow, without meaning to (and in some cases actively trying not to), I had developed a real friendship with this woman. Ridiculously, warmth moved across my body.

A red “berry” tumbled onto the floor as Deanna shoved a fistful of cereal into her mouth and crossed her legs under her on the chaouch. (I was never gonna stop calling it that.) “You hate marketing, right?”