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“They’re like…” I gestured meaninglessly. “If I had some paper, I’d draw it for you.”
“That’s okay.”
“Oh, I can show you on Ruth.” I turned her over and pointed to where her butthole would be. “Like, right there. But it’s not called a butthole. It’s called something else, and it’s where they lay eggs too.”
“Gross.”
“Yeah.” I paused. “The chlochlea, or something.”
He googled it. “Cloaca.”
“That’s what I said.”
“Does she still light up?”
“Let’s find out.” I shuffled on my knees over to an outlet and tried to plug Ruth in. I couldn’t get the prongs into the outlet, though.
“Oh my God, Fran.” Cass shuffled over too. “You don’t have it lined up right, you’re gonna elefftr-electrocute yourself. Fran!”
I gave the plug a hard shove just as Cass grabbed my arm and yanked my hand away from the socket.
God as my witness, I don’t know how it happened, but suddenly Ruth was skidding across the floorboards and Cass was underneath me and he was holding the back of my head to keep my mouth on his, and my hand was up his sweater.
Merry fucking Christmas to me.
ChapterSeven
At 8:37 the next morning, I sat in the reception area of Dr. Stephen Florris’s practice and stared at the tinsel-bedecked TV screen hanging from the ceiling. The volume was down, but the closed captions were on. MULLINS STABBED HIS UNSUSPECTING VICTIM THIRTY-SIX TIMES, they told me. I pondered the juxtaposition of Christmas decorations and true crime documentaries, and wondered if I was a terrible person for thinking that at least I wasn’t having as bad a day as some poor murder victim. On the other hand, a murder victim’s day wasn’t going to get any worse, while mine certainly was. Dr. Stephen Florris was not going to be very happy that I was obviously hungover, when I’d assured him at my last visit that I would start living on kale and sunlight and the endorphins I got from thirty minutes of brisk exercise a day. He’d probably note on my chart somewhere that I was a dirty liar. I might have joked last night that I wanted to be on his naughty list, but I had a feeling that was one of those things that was better in theory than in practice.
Like getting fall-down drunk with your ex.
I closed my eyes and tried to ignore the throbbing in my head.
I also ignored my phone when it buzzed in my pocket, because there was literally nobody I wanted to talk to right now. Best case scenario it was Mom, giving me a sleepover report and asking when I planned to collect the girls. Worst case it was Cass, and I had no idea what to say to him. How many times could we awkwardly laugh off all that kissing—and rubbing against each other like horny teenagers—before we actually had to acknowledge the elephant in the room?
Cass and I weren’t friends. We were never going to be friends, but it was probably also true that neither of us was ready to be anything more. Cass, because apparently I’d broken his heart so badly when we were younger that he still hadn’t gotten over me, and me because my life was a fucking mess. Case in point, last night’s kiss.
What should have been the prelude to an amazing night of tender and passionate lovemaking followed by fifty years of domestic bliss, had instead been the prelude to five minutes of awkward grinding, a pants explosion, muttered apologies and protracted silences as we waited for Cass’s Uber, and then thirty minutes of me singing Belinda Carlisle songs into my Kahlua as I waited for the laundry cycle to end.
“Mr. Cuthbert?” the receptionist trilled. “I’m so sorry, but Dr. Florris has had to cancel due to a family emergency.” Her candy-pink mouth, the lipstick bleeding into the wrinkles framing it, turned down in a sympathetic frown. “Dr. Miles Carruthers is taking his patients for the day. Is that okay with you?”
Her bright tone made it clear I wasn’t allowed to argue. “Uh, yeah, that’s no problem.”
Dr. Miles Carruthers, despite his perfect name, was not a commanding silver fox who belonged on a daytime soap. He was skinny, red-haired, and freckled. He was also younger than me by probably five years, and that hurt. He wasn’t disapproving when we went over my results, some of which had higher numbers—or lower; I wasn’t paying a lot of attention—than they should have. He was gently encouraging, which was worse, because I’m sure it was the exact tone he used when he talked to kids about how it was important to eat their vegetables.
As soon as I could, I escaped to the nearest Taco Hub for a breakfast burrito stuffed with cheese and bacon and sausage. I would definitely remember to eat better tomorrow, I silently promised Dr. Miles Carruthers as I devoured the burrito in my car. Today I had to get rid of this hangover.
My phone buzzed in my pocket and, feeling fortified by my burrito, I pulled it out to answer. It was a number I didn’t know.
“‘lo?” I asked around a mouthful.
“Is that Frances?” a man asked. “Frances Cuthbert?”
I swallowed. “Yes.”
“Frances!” The man chuckled. Actually chuckled. “This is Bill. Bill Fischer.”
“Oh,” I said. “Bill, hi.”
