What the hell is this?
No matter how much makeup and how many ridiculous layers of clothing, no matter the wig, the hat, and the fake beard—no matterwhat—I’m always going to know it’s Wilder standing at my front door, ringing the bell, and if I know, then…
I race from the kitchen, where my phone dinged with the notification that someone was on the doorstep, straight to the front entrance. I whip open the door like a hurricane-strength wind is snatching the damn thing, nearly tearing it off its hinges, and tug him inside.
My first reaction should be fury that he’s here when I was pretty darned specific about this being the last place he should show up, but how can I muster annoyance or anger toward a man dressed in a green and red plaid blazer, a velvet top hat, thick black-rimmed glasses, a footlong fake beard, red leather pants tight enough that grease was probably involved to get them on, snakeskin boots, and a long black wig to top it all off?
I release Wilder’s bicep as soon as I have the door shut and locked, as if there’s a herd of rabid fans chasing after him. I do race to the window and part the blinds to look outside, but there’s no one that I can see.
My fingersmightalso need a second to recover from being wrapped around Wilder’s arm. Even if I didn’t touch his skin, I still touched something that’s in contactwithhis skin, which meansbuzzing.A whole lot of bees sewn under my skin in a disturbed hive with a massive bunch of lip-licking, honey-eating predators salivating close bytype of buzzing.
I suck it up and pretend like my whole insides haven’t gone straight-up livewire. It’s a lie. My face is hot. My nipples are hot. My stomach hurts from the sudden fireworks exploding in my ovaries. And my panties are wet, which I’m pretty sure doesn’t go well with electricity.
“Are you insane?” I hiss, summoning some indignation just because I should have a right to feel it. “What are you doing here?”
If I’d known he was coming, I would have said no, obviously, but I also would have worn something other than old jean shorts and an oversized black T-shirt with a dancing pickle riding an eagle soaring between the clouds, yelling, “Surf’s up, dude!”
As if to back me up, Woof Woof Dog paces into the room. He’s an Old English Sheepdog. My mom rescued him two years ago. She was lonely with me being gone on tours all the time, and she claimed the cats were lonely too. At least that’s what she says every single time she adopts another pet.
Sometimes it’s hard to believe she’s a therapist, but the cats and the dog are family. I’m never going to give her a hard time about them. I adore them.
Woof Woof Dog stands there, more hair than beast, more mop than hair. He can smell Wilder, so he stares in the right direction. I’m just not sure he can actually see him. His ponytailfell out half an hour ago in the backyard, and I haven’t been able to get him to sit still to tame it back again. He sniffs, goes rigid, and lets out a tremendous bark followed by an explosive fart.
Wilder’s mouth drops. “Did your dog just fart at me?”
“He farts a lot in general. Don’t take it personally.”
“Is he… friendly?” Wilder asks.
I’ve never seen anyone look more uncertain.
“He is,” I reply. “He’s just not that into men. He used to belong to an old lady who had had him since he was a puppy. She’s the one who named him. Woof Woof Dog. I have to say, it’s the best name I’ve ever heard.”
Wilder gives me the polite look of someone who isn’t so certain, but would never say so. “The stick thing out front makes sense. I love that, by the way.”
“Oh! The stick library. Leave a stick, take a stick. Woof Woof Dog is a stick thief. I felt so bad that he’d gathered up all these sticks from all over the neighborhood. What if those sticks belonged to other dogs, and they were missing them? I had to create something to give back. I didn’t want him collecting up a bunch of bad karma.”
Wilder blinks at me, trying to gauge if I’m serious or not.
I am. It’s exactly why I made the little building out front by the start of the sidewalk.
“When Woof Woof Dog’s original owner had to move into a care home, she couldn’t take the dog with her. He had to go to a shelter, and it was incredibly traumatizing. My mom volunteers there, so she helped with his intake. He was so shut down that he was deemed unadoptable. She took him home. She couldn’t let anything happen to him. She got in touch with his old owner and visited her until she passed away a few months ago. My mom took Woof Woof Dog every single time she went, and they’d wheel his old owner out so she could see him.”
He blinks, then blinks again and again behind those thick-rimmed glasses. “That’s very kind of your mom,” he says, obviously touched.
It was. It is. My mom is one of the best people I know.
“He doesn’t have a lot of contact with men. It’s not that he doesn’t like them. He’s just unsure. Especially when you’re the one coming into the house. He’s better on walks or in the park or whatever. Men are in their natural habitat there.”For the love of lemon trees, did I really just say that?
“Men are in their natural habitat at the park?”
“You know what I mean.”
“At the dog park?”
“I didnotsay that. Or think it.” I’m getting flustered. I dig my hand into Woof Woof Dog’s shaggy, frizzy hair and scratch between his ears. His long pink tongue lolls out. I shouldn’t be the one flustered. I didn’t disobey someone’s express wishes.
I’m not the one wearing a fuckingtophat.
