“Well, I can’t just take off on him, Winnie.” She laughs at myobviousabsurdity.
“No? Not for a few days to visit your only daughter and grandchild?”
“I said I’ll check, Win. Quit sassing your mother.”
I inhale and exhale slowly, shaking myself. “Yeah, okay. Just, let me know, all right?”
“Will do…” She smacks her lips, searching for another topic—and evidently, comes up dry. “Well, I’ll let you go, then.”
“Okay, Mom.” I could ask her to keep talking. Icouldtell her how terrifying this all feels. How much I wish I could both fast-forwardandrewind time. How much I’d really like one of her long, tight hugs. But I don’t. “I love you,” I say instead.
“Love you too, sweet girl. I hope you get plenty of rest. Tell that grandbaby to ease up on you.”
“Will do. Bye.”
I hang up and press the phone to my chin, rolling onto my back and staring up at the ceiling. I replay the phone call and feel relieved, knowing that with my mother—thequeenof unpredictable emotions—it could have gone far worse. Andhey, at least now she knows. I can take that off my eternally long list of to-dos before the baby’s arrival. A list I should, now that I’m thinking about it, actually write down.
I’m about to count the day as a win overall, roll over, and pass out on myverycomfortable new mattress when I realise I forgot to check whether the door was locked. And while the bed beckons for me to stay and cocoon inside it, I don’t particularly enjoy the idea of being bludgeoned in my sleep or having the house burglarised on night one. So, whining even still, I drag myself out of bed and stumble toward the front door in the dark.
I notice the deadbolt is in place from a distance, but I still go into the entryway to check the handle. I accidentally step on a pile of mail on the floor that must have been delivered through the front door’s slot.
Robert Durand,I read off the top envelope. No time like the present to find out the surname of my baby daddy, I guess… What oneartham I doing?
Amongst the collection of flyers and nondescript envelopes is a comic book, still half bent from delivery. I pick it all up with every intention of dropping the pile on the counter and going back to bed. But when I place the mail down, the shiny, floppy comic stares up at me with bright fonts and colours too interesting to ignore. I decide some late-night reading won’t hurt and bring the comic to my bedroom.
I get back into bed, fluffing my pillows before I lie against them.The Annihilator Issue 392,it reads. I wonder if Bo has all three hundred and ninety-one previous editions somewhere. I guess, unlike Caleb, I never ventured into his closet to see what was in there. He could have a lot of stuff I don’t know about. Like more rope, for example.
Nope.That’s a dangerous thing to imagine. Decidedlynotfollowing that train of thought.
And sure, I don’t know who this Annihilator guy is—or why he’s so butthurt that the king of hell has been overthrown by this scantily clad Serinthina badass. But damn, this shit is entertaining from the jump.
There is a large bit of mutual pining going on between these two “enemies,” and I am eating it up. I’ve also gathered that there’s some sort of immortal deity that theybothfear, which can only be destroyed if they work together—begrudgingly, of course. I don’t know much else, however, given that I haven’t read the previous issues. Half of these terms, names, and places mean nothing to me. Still… I sort of love it. On the last page, amidst some excellent banter post battle, Serinthina heavily alludes that these two got down and dirty on the Ice PlanetBorgue. I blame the horny pregnancy hormones for the speed at which I pick up my phone to google which issue that could have been in.
Then I’m spending a little over three dollars to download issue one hundred and eighty-one onto my phone. All for the sake of getting to know Bo and his interests better, of course.
Not atallto see the horny aliens fuck.
CHAPTER 16
Istayeduphalfthe night reading old issues ofThe Annihilatorand paid for it this morning when my eyes had to fight to open at the sound of my alarm. I don’t have work today, but I should spend a few hours this morning unpacking and settling in before Bo arrives home. It’s one thing to have boxes or plants piled up in my bedroom, but I don’t want them in the kitchen or living room, taking up too much space and getting in his way.
And just as I load my last mug from the final kitchen box into the dishwasher, the front door beeps and hums as it unlocks, announcing Bo’s return.
“Hello,” he calls out, shutting the door behind him.
“Hey,” I reply, filling the dishwasher with detergent, grinning to myself. “I’m in the kitchen,” I add.
When I shut the dishwasher and turn around, Bo’s leaned against the archway, his coat folded over his arm and a canvas duffel bag in his grasp. “Hey, roomie,” he says, his smile wide and downright contagious.
“Welcome home,” I say, bowing into a stupid little curtsy that I immediately regret. “You have a greatplace.”
Bo’s eyes fall over my shoulder, admiring the plants I’ve hung in front of the kitchen window. “I like the plants,” he says. “Out there too.” He points to the living room with a thumb over his shoulder.
“Not too many?” I ask, grimacing.
He shrugs, as if to appear indifferent, but a quick twitch of his lips gives him away. “Not at all,” he forces out, his pitch wavering.
“Oh god… it’s too many.”
