I can’t say no to that.
And again with theknock it the hell off, heart.
I clear my throat and look back at my phone. “Fletcher’s mustache is survived by the man himself, whom we can’t entirely blame for choosing to decorate his face with such a monstrosity when his clothing, cars, and former uniform choice all suggest he was born lacking the genes required for good fashion taste. He compensates for his deficiency with a razor by occasionally being an incredibly good friend to a woman who deserves it more than she knows.”
Goldie blinks at me as I put my phone down. “Does it really say that?”
“I can’t make up things that nice.”
“I’m sorry we mocked your mustache,” she whispers. “That wasn’t nice of us.”
“Been through a lot worse than being mocked for having the most epic mustache to ever live.”
She peers at me, her face an open question.Tell me all of the bad things. You can trust me. You’re safe here.
I don’t dislike it as much as I should. “My mom would’ve thought this obituary was hilarious. She had a great sense of humor.”
Goldie smiles softly. “Everyone needs someone with a good sense of humor in their life.”
“I grew it in the first place because my second ex-wife told me I didn’t have the face for it.”
“Before or after your divorce?”
“During. She was cheating. I didn’t care, and that made her mad, and her being mad made me petty.”
“Why didn’t you care?”
“Married her for revenge.”
“On?”
“First wife.”
If ever there was a more pointeddo go oneyebrow arch, I haven’t seen it.
And I ignore it and head for the bookshelf. “You have an order you want these to go in? Any special labeling on the box?”
“No. I like being surprised by finding my favorite books in every box I open.”
“None you want put in specific boxes so you can find them again easily on the other side?”
“I’ll buy another copy if I’m desperate. Or get it in audio or ebook.”
“You still haven’t told me why you have eighty-six cookies in your freezer.”
“Nine. And it’s because I love these cookies, but they areridiculouslyhuge. I can only eat half at a time, so I put the other half in the freezer to make it last longer, and then I get a fresh cookie when I want another because they’re better fresh.”
She’s completely serious. And that’s fucking delightful too. “What are you going to do with your freezer?”
“I don’t know,” she whispers. “And that’s probably the worst part of this whole move.”
She’s so forlorn.
But she’s wrong.
Sacrificing frozen cookies isn’t the worst part of her move.
The worst part is that she’s leaving.
