I don’t want food.
I want?—
Nope. Not going there with what I want. I have a job to do this morning.
“Does Cricket still have The Cockinator?”
“The Cluckinator,” I correct automatically, less because I care and more because Ginny told me everyone at the salon yesterday was snickering when Lav told the story and called the chicken by the wrong name.
I don’t like people laughing at my kid.
“That’s what I said,” she says. “I can help with the chicken if she still has her.”
“I’m sure Cricket will love your help once she’s figured it all out.”
“Where does the chicken sleep?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is she living in our house?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Cricket wouldn’t trap an animal like that.”
When she’s sober.
I wish I could remember if one of us brought the chicken into the house or if the chicken followed us.
Lav dashes for the basement door.
“Lavender—”
“I’m going to knock,” she tells me.
“Lav, stop?—”
She ignores me, dashing down the stairs with her green-streaked hair sticking up at all angles like she fought dragons in her sleep and one leg of her pajama pants hitched higher than the other.
Doing her hair this morning will be an adventure.
“Cricket, are you in there?” she yells. “I want to help feed The Cockinator.”
“The Cluckinator, Lav,” I whisper.
She doesn’t hear me.
Because you’re a chickenshit and you don’t want to say anything loudly enough that Cricket might hear you, my brain helpfully reminds me.
I’m not a goddamn chickenshit though.
I’m a guy trying to remember boundaries.
Because if I don’t?—
If I don’t, I’ll march down there and show Cricket exactly why she shouldn’t get on the dating apps.
BecauseI’m right here.
And that—that—is my real issue.
