“I am not kidding you. The men were literally across the street from us at a strip club called The Frisky Filly.”
I lean back in the passenger seat and stare at the ceiling of Emmie’s car. “So while we were being interrogated by cowboys and interrogating murder suspects, our husbands were probably getting lap dances from women named Candy and Destiny.”
“Don’t jump to conclusions,” Emmie says, though she doesn’t sound convinced. “Maybe they were being responsible adults.”
“Emmie, Conrad posted a bathroom selfie at a strip club. That’s not the behavior of responsible adults.”
“Fair point. But look,” she scrolls through more posts, “there’s no sign of Jasper or Leo in any of these pictures. Maybe they bailed early.”
“Or maybe they’re smarter than Conrad about documenting their debauchery,” Mom points out, and I shoot her a look.
We spend the next ten minutes driving through Edison’s neon-lit streets while conducting the most thorough social media investigation in the history of suspicious wives.
Piers posted a group shot of guys holding beer bottles, but it’s too dark to identify faces. Conrad’s story reveals disturbingly detailed knowledge of The Frisky Filly’s drink specials. And there’s absolutely no trace of our allegedly responsible husbands anywhere.
“You know what?” I announce as we finally head toward the highway. “I’m choosing to believe they went home early to take care of the babies like the mature, trustworthy men we married.”
Emmie shrugs. “That’s very optimistic of you.”
“It’s very naive of me, but I’m sticking with it.”
Why do I get the feeling my optimism is going to get tested?
The drive back gives us plenty of time to process the evening’s events, especially since Georgie, who somehow managed to acquire a cowboy hat, a sheriff’s badge, and what appears to be alasso during our Edison adventure, insists on regaling us with detailed commentary about her stage performance.
“I told you I was going to get Conrad’s attention,” she declares from the backseat, twirling her newly acquired lasso. “Mission accomplished.”
“Georgie, you line-danced with male strippers,” Mom points out wearily. “That’s not exactly subtle flirtation. And Conrad wasn’t even at the club tonight.” He was at a totally different strip club—one that he’s more inclined to enjoy.
“Subtlety is overrated,” Georgie shoots back. “Besides, did you see how fast Conrad jumped on stage to rescue me when I got tangled up in my own lasso?”
I nod to Georgie. “And I saw how fast the security guards moved to prevent Mom from committing assault when she tried to drag you off stage,” I counter.
“Georgie, that was a Conrad look-alike.” Mom sighs with exasperation. “I told you to lay off those glowing concoctions. We still don’t know what was in them. With our luck, you’ll be drunk for weeks. Anyway, at least that bouncer was perfectly reasonable once I explained that Georgie was having a psychotic break brought on by too much Western-themed entertainment.”
Georgie squawks at the thought. “You told him I was having a breakdown?”
“I told him you were temporarily insane due to cowboy-induced hysteria. He was very understanding.”
By the time we’ve deposited everyone safely in their homes, it’s nearly midnight, and my cottage windows are glowing with warm yellow light that lets me know either my husband is home watching late-night television or we’re being burglarized by very considerate criminals who turn on lamps.
“Moment of truth,” I say to Emmie as we pull into my driveway.
“Remember,” Emmie grins, “act casual. We went to our book club.”
“A book club that lasted until midnight and involved cowboy hats?”
“It’s a very enthusiastic book club.”
We spot two figures on the couch, so Emmie and I make our way to the cottage, and through the windows we can see the flickering blue light of the television mixing with the warm glow of lamps.
The coffee table looks to be littered with takeout containers, pizza boxes, and what appears to be an entire dessert tray from the café. The sound of a basketball game drifts through the screen door, along with the comforting scents of garlic, tomato sauce, and chocolate. And that’s how I know I’m truly home.
“Either our husbands had the most epic boys’ night in history or they ordered enough food to survive a zombie apocalypse,” I observe.
Bizzy and Emmie are back,Fish announces from somewhere inside the cottage.And they smell like cheap perfume and regret.
They also smell like nachos,Sherlock adds hopefully.Are there leftovers?
