“Ooooh, but maybe we should save this one,” she said, holding up a coupon from the Greek place around the corner.
I nodded. “Put it in the fridge.”
She pointed the coupon at me, then set it off to the side. “Affirmative.” We kept coupons for our favorite delivery placesinthe fridge and not on it, which we discovered was the only way to guarantee we’d use them. A fridge full of boring ingredients versus the possibility of takeout: it was no contest.
“Did you see the link I sent you earlier?” she asked.
Sunny had also been keeping a dutiful eye on the internet for me, and it seemed that after the initial shock wore off and the internet had a moment to digest the reality of a sex worker cast in a Hope Channel movie, people had something to say. And so, the think pieces started rolling in, and my text thread with Sunny had turned into a constant stream of essay links—all of which she’d vetted in advance.
What Bianca von Honey and the Hope Channel Can Teach Us About Denying Women as Sexual Beings
A Porn Star, a Christmas Movie, and What We All Really Want for the Holidays
Some Twitter Users Put on the Naughty List for Trollish, Fatphobic Behavior
Why Fat Women Still Can’t Have Their Cake and Eat It Too
All I Want for Christmas Is “Duke the Halls”
The Scariest Thing About Sex Work Is How We Treat Sex Workers
Bianca von Honey: What We Know and Why You Should Be Her Biggest Fan
I’d read the headlines. That was as much as I could manage to do. I’d been so easily affected by all the immediate negativity that I didn’t trust myself enough not to get caught up in the—what I was sure to be short-lived—positivity. If I’d learned anything from the last few days, it was that living and dying by the court of public opinion was not sustainable.
I smiled. “Some of them look pretty good.”
“You don’t have to read them. But I just want you to know, it’s not all bad. In fact, a lot of it is really good.”
I bit down on the corner of my lip. “I did notice a jump in subscribers.”
“Get that money, honey.”
“Bee?” Mom called from outside my bedroom door. “We’re going to order pizza and pop some champagne. Come on down if you want any say in what kind of toppings we get. Mama Pam’s on a real mushroom kick.”
“Be right down!” I called over my shoulder. “I better go,” I said to Sunny, “but hey, I think I’ll probably catch a flight to L.A. in a few days.”
“Okay, good, because we have some serious roommate discussions to have,” she said as she reached over her laptop and held up a huge black cat in front of the camera. The cat was not amused. “Um, please don’t be mad.”
My eyes turned into saucers. “Is that a cat in our house? In our house that we rent that has a no-pets policy?”
She held him in her arms like a baby, and remarkably, he allowed it. “I got so lonely without you,” she said with her lips in a frown. “I hired a cat sitter while I was in Vermont. His name is Mr.Tumnus and he loves cheese puffs.”
“Okay, well, welcome to the family, Mr.Tumnus.” We’d have to hide him from our landlord, but I wasn’t about to orphan our firstborn child-cat.
Sunny beamed. “Mr.Tumnus! Did you hear that! Daddy Bee loves you!”
“All right, all right, I better go,” I told her.
“Oh, Bee, uh, maybe while you’re home, it might be a good time to redecorate.” She pointed at the wall behind me.
I didn’t have to turn around to know she was talking about the INK shrine that teenage Bee had carefully curated. I couldn’t tell her that I didn’t want to take it all down and that falling asleep to Nolan’s face was the best sleep I’d had in days. “I know, I know,” I finally said. “Okay, I’ll call you later. Happy New Year to you and Mr. Tumnus.”
I made it downstairs just in time to beg Mom to order half a pizza with pineapple and ham.
After pulling out the stepladder, I helped Mama Pam find the champagne flutes from their wedding. When I was a teenager, they’d tracked down a third glass from the same stemware collection, so I could join them in their midnight toast.
From the living room, I could hear Mom cursing at the television.
