TeenDad2: LOL
TeenDad2: Okay, you’re gonna have to explain that one because wth?
xVerity: Before you made it to the island, it was decided that Knot was destined to fall in love with a cactus.
xVerity: Apparently, the two sneaked off to engage in coitus while the rest of us weren’t looking, because I wasn’t aware it was official. Congratulations on your budding love, Knot. May it bloom into something that can withstand every emotional drought.
TeenDad2: I’m confused
TeenDad2: why would Knot want to have sex with a cactus?
GlitterDoctor: You’d be surprised what some people are into
GlitterDoctor: …and what those same people are willing to shove up their asses
xVerity: Can confirm.
KnotMyProblem: Ohh, getting a little wild in the bedroom now that we’re married, aren’t we, xV? ;)
xVerity: NOT THAT WAY.
TeenDad2: I think that’s the first time I’ve ever seen xV type in all caps
TeenDad2: ITS THE END TIEMS!
TeenDad2: *TIMES
TeenDad2: WATCH OUT THE END TIMES HAVE ALSO COME FOR MY GRAMMAR
Damien cackled and set down his poorly mixed protein shake. He’d pinged the Dads to complain about how a clump of undissolved powder had lodged itself in the back of his throat only to explode, sending its evil moisture-sucking spores on a search-and-destroy mission for his lungs, but as usual, the off-topic banter was too good to cut short.
KnotMyProblem: Maybe next we can get him to use an emoji
TeenDad2: Or SWEAR!
xVerity: Let’s not get crazy.
xVerity: You’re both setting yourselves up for disappointment.
KnotMyProblem: Are we? Or are we setting ourselves up for SUCCESS?
xVerity: Definitely disappointment.
Snickering, Damien tabbed out of the chat and into his email client, where the newest draft of The Worst Email of His Life was open. Since last night he’d been chipping away at it with renewed enthusiasm, but there didn’t seem to be a combination of words in the English language that could politely and concisely encapsulate the fact that yes, Damien was sleeping with his friend’s son, but no, he wasn’t doing it just to get his dick wet. And that he was sorry, but also not sorry, that it had happened.
What a headache.
Dear Gwynn,the current email read. After that was a vast swath of blank space where Damien had pressed the enter key too many times, then nothing. Five weeks and fifty drafts later and all he’d managed were two words—words Damien wasn’t even sure he should keep. Was it a slap in the face to start an “I’m sorry I’m boning your son” email with the word “dear”?
Fuck if he knew.
While Damien mulled over whether or not the one word in his email that wasn’t “Gwynn” could be used as ammunition, he received a text from Matthew.
Kill me. So sick I can’t even get out of bed. I only barely managed to stop my dad from taking me to the ER
The email could wait. Matthew’s health and well-being was more pressing.You should let him take you.
It hasn’t even been 24 hours yet. It’s just a flu bug or something. I’m just cranky and miserable
