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The emotional roller coaster of dropping Aria off for her first day of school and then getting ambushed in the driveway mid-make-out and now contending with a shroomed-up wife might drive him over the edge.
No…wait.
He couldn’t lose his mind. Harper had gone full-on cuckoo, and one of them had to keep this crazy train on the tracks.
“Hey, heartthrob?” she sang from the back seat.
At least she was in good spirits.
“Yeah, how are you feeling?”
“Terrific,” she cheered. “My left hand can talk to my right hand. Look, if I do this, it’s like they are little mouths at the end of my wrists instead of fingers.” She raised her hands and opened and closed them as her gaze bounced from hand to hand. “Hello, right hand. Hello, left hand,” she greeted, then gasped and held her left hand to her ear. “Wait, what’s that, lefty? You want to be called Joyce? That’s a beautiful name, Joyce. And you have something to tell me, too?” she exclaimed, her expression awash with surprise as she directed her attention to her right hand. “You want to be called Bartholomew. That’s my husband’s middle name. Well, he’s not my real husband. He’s my double-dog dare sixty-day husband—with benefits, the naughty kind.”
Sweet Christ!
Harper giggled. “Joyce and Bartholomew, you two know about the marital benefits because I use you when I run my hands down Landon’s rock-hard abs and reach for his giant—”
“And…look at that lamppost, people,” he blurted, pointing out the first thing he saw to cut off the X-rated commentary.
He could feel Schuman’s eyes on him. But there was no way he was about to explain their marital situation. Hell, he wasn’t even sure what was going on between them. But now wasn’t the time to untangle his whirlwind of emotions.
“Tell me more about these shroom-pops,” he said, steering the conversation away from his private parts. “Are there any other substances mixed in I should know about?”
“No, of course not. They’re quite safe when used correctly. My nephew makes them for medicinal purposes,” Schuman explained. “They’re not meant to be scarfed down, though. Consuming one or even half of one is plenty to get a calming, mind-opening effect.”
“What will four do?” he pressed, then glanced in the rearview mirror and caught his wife testing out her tongue again. “Harper, don’t eat the seat belt.”
“But it wants to be tasted, heartthrob. It wants to be tasted and valued and loved. And…heartthrob?”
“Yeah?”
“Could I have a penis cookie?”
How was this their life?
He glanced at Schuman, and the man shook his head. “The contest expressly states we need to submit two dozen. That’s all we’ve got.”
He caught her eye in the mirror. “Sorry, bonbon, the cookies are for the contest. Remember the contest—the baking contest?”
“Yes, I remember. The oven wouldn’t stop talking about it before we left, right, Joyce?” Harper replied as she conversed with her hand. “One more thing, heartthrob?”
As long as it didn’t have to do with a penis, she could ask any question she wanted. “What is it?”
She tapped her chin. “What about a ball sac?”
He swerved and nearly hit the curb. “Jesus, Harper!”
His wife cleared her throat. “Maybe,” she began, employing a French accent while opening and closing her left hand like a delirious ventriloquist, “there’s a broken penis cookie, and Harper can eat the ball sac part,” the hand finished in a rather convincing Parisian cadence.
Come on, universe. If he could make it through this day without hearing his wife saypenisorball sacagain, he’d donate a million bucks to some worthy penis and ball sac foundation.
“Sorry, Joyce, we don’t have any extranumber onecookies,” he replied, addressing Harper’s left hand.
Yep, things were getting nuttier by the minute.
No, not nuts. Nuts were another euphemism for ball sac.
Things were gettingcrazierby the minute.
