Dean Meyer
I knew you’d fit right in with us, Hollywood. Relax, I’ll save this dick pic for Christmas. Maybe Mala and I will send it as our holiday cards this year.
eleven
nisha
The Spawn of Yoda And A Mole Rat
The following Wednesday, I slip a needle into the next stitch and purl it tight, mimicking the knot in my throat. The seed stitch pattern I’ve been working on for Hector’s sweater was supposed to look delicate and textured, but mine is pulled so taut, it’s at risk of snapping.
Kind of like me.
My next client, a man I’ve never met named Henry Knox, texted the front desk saying he’s running late, so I thought I’d squeeze in a few rows. And since Sarina and Piper are busy with their own clients, I figured I’d take the opportunity to watch something I never watch in front of them: a red-carpet gala on the Style channel.
One where my ex-husband just so happens to be in attendance.
On the large TV above a cabinet in my suite, Patton rises from his seat, wearing a tux that hugs his broad chest, thick biceps, and trim waist like it’s doing God’s work. Even on a screen, the man manages to look larger than life, like he knows how to make every head turn in his direction. And they all do.
Flashing a practiced smile at the camera, he’s just about to head to the stage to accept his award for his work with the foster program he grew up in when Ursula stands up.
That’s not actually her name. It’s just what I’ve decided to call her in my head, since she reminds me of the villainous part-octopus sea witch fromThe Little Mermaid.
Every time the camera has panned to his table, she’s been all over him: touching his hand, pretending to brush lint off his tux, and batting her fake lashes so hard, she’s liable to create a windstorm.
My eyes take in her voluminous red hair and dainty features. A long leg peeks out from a slit so high on the side of her navy-blue dress, you’d think she was there to see her gynecologist. And her skin—a perfect blend of flawless and freckles—glows under the chandelier lighting, like she wears a permanent Instagram filter. It probably smells like it’s been misted by fairies and rainbows, too.
Stupid heifer.
Placing a delicate hand—tentacle—on his shoulder, she leans over and whispers something into my ex-husband’s ear before leaving a red kiss stain on his cheek and earning herself a smile.
When she dusts the lapel of his jacketagain, I roll my eyes, muttering in a high-pitched voice I’ve decided sounds like her, “Oh, look, there’s another piece of invisible lint on your hard and broad chest, Patton. Let me get that for you.”
I tug at the yarn harder than I should. “What is she, a human lint roller? His personal groomer? And seriously, that dress? It’s a charity event, not spring break in Cancun, Ursula! Have some decorum.”
And the decency to keep your hands off men who don’t belong to you.
Not that he belongs to me, either.
I watch as Patton frees himself from the red-haired octopus, making his way to the stage with long strides.
“I’m surprised the stage-five clinger isn’t going up there with him,” I mutter to myself, tugging another stitch with more force than necessary.
And that’s when a prickle runs down my back. The kind you get when you’re walking past a glass display case and the mannequin moves.
I freeze, mid-loop, feeling my pulse increase.
I know this feeling all too well . . . I’ve felt it several times in the past few days.
I slowly turn to look into the mirror at my styling station and, catching the reflection there, whip my head to the man standing at my doorway.
Ugh! Not again.
Seven years of radio silence—save for that time last year when I ran with my panties barely hanging on to the last shreds of my dignity—and now he’s popping up everywhere like an overactive prairie dog.
With his arms crossed and a shoulder leaning against the frame, Patton stares back at me, trying and failing to wipe a grin off his face. Tufts of dark chestnut hair peek out from under his beige cap, and his eyes seem more piercing and focused today, like sunbeams intent on eviscerating their target through a magnifying glass.
His chin lifts and smug amusement dances in his eyes. “Didn’t mean to interrupt your jealous roasting. Please, carry on. I was actually hoping you’d get to the part where the human lint-roller turns into actual lint and attaches herself to my suit sleeve.”
