Page 51 of When the Smoke Clears

“Well”—I glance over her shoulder before she says anything about me staring at her boobs—“not everyone is getting them removed. That’s not literally true.”

“I didn’t say literally everyone.”

I hate her. Sure, I want to rip off her clothes and see just how bouncy her new boobs are, but mostly I hate her.

When I look at her again, she grins. It’s big and toothy. Obnoxious. In the next breath, it simmers a bit.

“Sorry to hear about your mom. How’s she doing?”

“What?” I squint.

“You told your dad she had a hysterectomy.”

“Fifteen years ago. My dad has dementia or something going on with his memory.”

“Oh. That must be frustrating. Has he had a neurological evaluation?”

It’s mind-blowing just how easily this woman can shift from batshit-crazy Everleigh to completely normal and professional Dr. Reichart.

As if she can read my mind, she folds her hands in front of her.

“Everything about my dad is frustrating at the moment. But mostly it’s sad with the occasional comedic relief, like when he goes off about my mom being pregnant with another man’s child because her breasts are big. And before you ask, yes, she has implants too.”

“Was that difficult for you? It’s not uncommon for sons to feel uneasy or awkward about their mothers changing parts of their bodies that are associated with both comfort (for example, breastfeeding or the familiarity of a warm embrace) and sexuality.”

“Are you shrinking me over my mother’s implants?”

“It could be awkward for her too. Especially if you stare at them.”

I cringe. “God! Stop that shit, Everleigh. I don’t stare at my mom’s breasts.”

She purses her lips, but that doesn’t hide her amusement. Her body shifts, and I notice something. It’s the hands. When she’s no longer Dr. Reichart, she folds them behind her like she’s on the verge of dropping her chin and saying “Aw, shucks.” It’s her tell.

“You’re a terrible psychiatrist.”

“I’m not your psychiatrist. I’m your friend. And friends tease each other.”

Hence, the hands folded behind her.

“We’re not friends.” I step past her and keep walking toward the house.

“Then what are we?” She jogs to catch up.

“I’m your landlord. You’re my tenant, whom I’m evicting.”

“On what grounds?”

“Theft.”

“What are you talking about?”

I unlace my boots by the back door. “You stole my razor.”

“Borrowed it.”

“There are some things you don’t borrow. Like condoms, toothbrushes, and razors. Borrowing implies you will return it. And no one returns a used condom, toothbrush, or razor.” I stand, gazing down at her.

“Sometimes, borrow means that you’ll replace the item instead of returning the original. Like borrowing a cup of sugar to bake a cake.”