Kiki shrugged, still looking down at the jumpsuit, spreading it across the bed as if she needed to see the whole thing to better assess it. “Everyone knows you and Asa don’t get along,” she said. “You think he’s a clown, and he thinks you’re the ultimate wet blanket.”
Something about the way she said it—the ultimate wet blanket—made Lauren positive that it was a direct quote from Asa himself. She could hear the way he’d say it. It would come out exasperated, both fists in his hair as he pulled it away from his head, as if she was driving him so crazy he almost couldn’t contain it. Or it would come out snarky, a casual aside while he was busy doing something else, a flippant comment tossed over his shoulder.
The ultimate wet blanket. That was Lauren.
“I’m thirsty,” she said, her throat feeling suddenly tight. “Would you mind if I—”
Kiki waved her hand vaguely toward the door. “Sure,” she said. “Help yourself. Sorry, I should’ve offered.”
Lauren found a glass in the cupboard and filled it from the filtered water dispenser in the fridge door. She took a long, cool gulp of water before holding the glass to her cheek. Her face was getting that hot feeling like it did before she was about to cry, which was ridiculous. She knew what Asa thought of her. And although she’d never used the exact word, clown was fairly accurate for the way she’d always thought of him. He seemed to treat everything like it was one big lark, from his job to his stupid hair.
There were various papers cluttering the surface of the fridge, held in place by quirky magnets from a bouffant-sporting psychic in Cassadaga, a local pizza place, and a quote from John Waters—“True success is figuring out your life and career so you never have to be around jerks.” There was also a sticky pad grocery list with a pen clipped to it, and maybe it was the John Waters quote, or maybe it was ultimate wet blanket still rattling around in Lauren’s head, but she set her water down on the counter. Ripping off a piece of the sticky pad, she drew a little word bubble and then wrote inside: I’m getting a strong “A” vibe . . . Asa? Ass?
She slapped the note on the fridge, making it look like the words were coming from the psychic, and replaced the pen where she’d gotten it. There.
It might be juvenile as hell, but it certainly wasn’t wet blanket. And weirdly, it made her feel better. That would teach him to mess with her to-do list.
Chapter
Four
It was almost ten by the time Asa got home from work. Somehow Marcus had convinced him to do the dirtiest parts of the closing checklist, including mopping the lobby, taking the trash out to the dumpster, and checking under the bleachers for gum. There was always gum.
He was tired, and what he definitely wasn’t up for was a call with his older sister, who’d probably want to make the case again for why bygones should be bygones, family was family, and on and on. But Becca’d called three times in a row, and it was the rule of sisters—any summons made thrice had to be answered. Or maybe he was thinking of fairy-tale witches.
It might be too late to call by then, but Asa dialed her anyway, figuring that was what she got. Sure enough, she picked up almost right away, sounding annoyingly undisturbed.
“About time,” she said. “What’s the point of having a cell phone at all?”
“I was at work,” he said, trying to keep the edge out of his voice. He had no direct issue with Becca. She’d been collateral damage when he’d moved out of their parents’ house. Been kicked out. Whatever the current party line was.
“Did you get the baby shower invite?”
“Uh . . .”
“Shut up,” she said. “I know you did. The United States Postal Service is extremely reliable, no matter what the checkis-in-the-mail people want you to think. I addressed it very carefully and mailed it out three weeks ago.”
“Didn’t realize you were part of the USPS lobby,” Asa said, but she had him and she knew it. “I do live with housemates, you know. And I’m not the one who usually gets the mail—that’s Elliot.”
He’d pulled into the driveway, holding the phone between his cheek and his shoulder as he climbed out of the car. He could picture the invitation—he’d sliced open the egg-yolk yellow envelope himself, turned it over to see the dancing brown sock monkeys with their red yarn bow ties. Becca had always had a thing for sock monkeys.
The lights were all on in the house. Asa really didn’t feel like continuing this conversation with an audience, so he leaned against the hood of his car, sighing down into the phone.
“Becca,” he said. “They’ll be there.”
“Well, it’s a Sunday. But yeah, they might be—they’re about to be grandparents. And you’re about to be an uncle, and I’d just—” Her voice hitched with an unusual emotion coming from his no-nonsense big sister. “I’d really like you there. Please? It’s the nineteenth, at ten in the morning. My house. I can send you the address if you don’t have it.”
“I have it.”
She was quiet for a moment, and Asa could almost hear all the things they could say to fill that silence. He could ask if they’d considered names yet, if they were doing stuff like putting plastic covers over all the outlets, or he could apologize for not coming to her wedding. And she’d talk about painting the nursery and how much she missed being able to drink and tell him it was fine, she understood.
But it wasn’t fine. It killed him, but he also didn’t see any way to change things. Not unless his parents were willing to change, and he doubted they ever would.
“I gotta go,” he said. “You take care of yourself, all right? And the baby.”
“Of course. And you’ll—”
Asa hung up. It was a coward’s move, but that was what he was. A big, fat coward.
When he walked through his front door, all three of his housemates were on the couches, watching a terrible dating reality show John was obsessed with and the rest of them tolerated. Well, secretly more than tolerated.
“Just in time,” Elliot said, looking over their shoulder. “They haven’t made the eliminations yet.”
Elliot claimed to watch the show out of purely professional curiosity, based on the one article they’d written about the trans representation last season. As a health writer, Elliot’s main beat wasn’t usually entertainment, and they’d vowed to never write for that particular publication again after it took six months to chase down their fifty-dollar check. And yet here they were, still watching the show. For research.
Kiki never turned down anything she could make fun of, and she was Asa’s main partner in watching Hallmark holiday movies until they couldn’t stand another second of ex–sitcom stars in henleys. The trick was not to watch anything you actually liked with Kiki, as she showed no mercy in ripping any media to shreds.
Of all his housemates, John was the biggest mystery. He used to be the guitarist in some one-hit-wonder band, apparently. Asa had no idea how royalties worked, but he knew that John still made money off that song—enough that he didn’t need to work aside from playing a few gigs here and there with various local bands. Despite any rock-star stereotype, though, John was a homebody and kept to himself. Most nights, Asa found him a lot like he was now—his wild black curls sticking out over the top of the couch as he watched this show, a bowl of cereal in his lap.
“It’ll be that guy,” Asa said after watching a few minutes of the episode. An earnest ginger was doing a talking head about how much he’d given up to be on the show, but how worth it the experience was for the chance to meet the love of his life. “He’s talking sacrifices. That’s a death knell.”
“Yeah, but the other guy cried on his phone call home,” John pointed out.
“Fuck,” Asa said. “They’re onto me.”