“Yeah, sure.”
I always rationalize better on a full stomach. The odds of me making a stupid choice, breaking down, and spilling my guts over the entire thing are less likely after someone puts food in me. More so if the food is delicious.
Five hourslater and I still don’t come up with an answer to my moral conundrum. Do I tell Hudson the truth, which would expose everyone’s lies? Or do I keep it inside and hope everything eventually blows over and everyone forgets? I prefer option two the most, but something tells me with a man in the hospital the odds of me waking up tomorrow with this taken care of are slim to none. My stomach doesn’t like choice two, but of course it also doesn’t like option one either.
Hudson doesn’t seem like a guy who’d eventually get bored and go home, plus who is paying for him to be here? What if they send me a bill one day? The whole web of lies I’ve gotten myself into strings along in my stomach until I feel sick. I’ve always been more anxious than your regular person, but I’m in full-on ulcer territory.
“Amanda? You’re not listening.”
“What?” I shake my head and my attention back to what’s happening. I’m standing next to Hudson with my keys still in the door, it half closed behind me.
“The pigs.”
“What?” I ask, but then before I can get more information I hear what Hudson means.
Loud high-pitched squeaks and squeals come from my bedroom. I laugh, the worries of the last few hours washed away, at least for a few minutes.
“It’s Monday. They want carrots.” I want to say my guinea pigs are smarter than most. We use a routine of which vegetables they get per day so they can keep a healthy rotation for their diet. I want to believe they’re aware today is Monday and there’re carrots coming their way, but in reality, they’re called guineapigsfor a reason. The pigs are always hungry. It doesn’t matter what day of the week or time I come home. They know once the front door closes they get food. Even if they still have a mound of hay sitting next to them and their pellets are full. The ongoing call for more food is strong with these two. They always want more.
“What? You grab a handful from the fridge and throw them in the cage?” Hudson asks looking at me like he hopes this is the answer.
But nothing in life is so easy.
I smile and slowly shake my head. “Carrots are full of sugar so they are only allowed one per week and you have to hold it when you give it to them otherwise Cupcake will steal the carrot from Ginny and then there will be a rebellion.” They might only be guinea pigs but they bicker like small children.
“Hold them?”
I nod. “Yup.”
“Like in your hand?” Hudson stares at the open bedroom door in horror even as the squeals get louder.
“Yes. It’s usually better than using your feet.”
Hudson fake laughs a little dramatically. “And then what?”
“Well, then you feed them the carrot, and as a thank you they’ll normally poop on you.”
His face falls and his eyes narrow in my direction. If I didn’t know what we were discussing, I’d feel like a child caught trying to steal food from the fridge.
“It’s how they say thank you.” I continue talking since he’s still quiet. Maybe he hopes it’s a joke. “If they’re really comfortable with you sometimes they pee.”
Now his head flops of the side. “They say thank you by pooping on you?” he asks, but a small corner of his lips twitches with the question.
“Yes, it’s the guinea pig way. Come on, big guy, you can handle this,” I say slapping him on the middle of the back as I walk the short hallway.
And if the little piggies don’t get their carrot soon, they might wither away and die.
Hudson follows me into the bedroom. “Are you sure?”
I turn back, my hand already halfway into their cage. “About the poop?”
“Yeah.”
“Absolutely. Ginny is comfortable with you when she’s willing to poop on you.”
“Wonderful,” Hudson says as I pass over Ginny —the white black and brown guinea pig — to him.
Ginny is a big pooper. I normally use a towel when I hold her to help with the cleanup. The guinea pig squirms in Hudson’s hands, her little body settling right in his hands, and his eyes bug out. He tenses, squeezing a little too tightly, and she looks at me as if to say, “What in the fuck, mother? Who is this dude?”
