by Monroe, Lila
Marge snorts. “You are my first husband,” she reminds him. “Anyway, point is, opposites can make it work.”
“Not this opposite,” I vow. “Besides, he’s so not my type.”
Marge reaches for my hand. “That’s exactly what I said about that crusty old piece of shoe leather beside me.”
“I heard that,” Frank smirks.
“You were meant to,” Marge quips.
I smile. “So, what changed your mind in the end?”
She leans close. I do the same.
“His big . . . brain.”
I snort with laughter.
“And his tush,” she says shamelessly. “He was a firefighter you know.”
“I didn’t know that,” I say, looking past her at Frank. “I thought you were an English professor.”
He shrugs. “Volunteer firefighter. No woman ever has ever fallen for a stuffy old English professor in a tweed jacket.”
“Like you’ve ever owned a tweed jacket!” Marge says, laughing. “But I’m telling you, Evie. Love arrives in all the most unexpected places.”
Unexpected is one thing, but a shamelessly charming duplicitous liar? I think not. Frank may seem like a crusty old soul, but deep down he’s a good and loving man who adores his wife. There’s no way she fell for him just because he had a good butt back in the day. You can’t base a marriage of sixty-five years on a nice ass.
Can you?
* * *
After I finish at the retirement home, I return the dogs to the shelter and put in a full day scrubbing kennels and helping process adoptions. Then I have two evening clients scheduled for a walk . . . except they don’t get along, so I have to walk them separately. My Fitbit loves me. My feet? Not so much.
By the time I get off the bus and trudge the several blocks back to the house, it’s getting late. I’m starving, exhausted, and ready to collapse.
Until I hear the thumping music. Ugh! Clearly, Noah’s got the pool house a-rocking again.
But I as I head up the driveway—now packed with cars— I realize that it isn’t just Noah being an inconsiderate house guest, it’s him being a host. To a party. In the house I am responsible for!
I step inside. Music is blasting, and there must be a hundred people already hanging out drinking beers and yelling to be heard over the din. I head on through the house, only to find the party continuing, out on the back terrace, with some people even splashing around in the pool. Viv and Colin didn’t leave many instructions when they entrusted me to look after their place, but I’m pretty sure “no epic rager parties” was a given.
Crapwaffle.
I spot Noah in the kitchen, surrounded by supermodels (of course), doing shots. The crowd parts a little and I see a woman lying on the island. Wait. Did I say doing shots? I meant doing body shots.
Am I living in a John Hughes movie from the ’80s? “I may as well be back at the sorority house,” I say to no one.
I stride into the kitchen and wedge myself between Noah and one of his admirers.
“Eve, you made it,” he says, looking down at me with an infuriatingly smug grin that still manages to be sexy as hell. “Welcome to the party. Can I get you a drink? Wine, beer, lemon drop shooter?”
I shake my head, frustrated. “What are you doing? You can’t throw a party here!”
“Why not?” he asks. “It’s the perfect place to entertain. I’m pretty sure that’s what Viv and Colin said when they bought this place.”
“But they’re not here! You need to shut this down.”
Noah rolls his eyes. “Come on, loosen up. Have a drink, have some fun . . .” He pours a shot—into a glass thankfully, despite the body shot girl still being available—and holds it out to me. “You could have a good time if you weren’t wound so tight.”
“I’m wound the appropriate amount!” I protest. “You’re the one who’s going to get us in trouble.”
“Why?” he asks. “Are you going to rat me out to Mom and Dad?”
“Ugh!”
He laughs. “I’ve got this, just chill. Nothing bad is going to happen.”
“No!” I wail. “You just tempted fate!” I look around. “Who are these people, anyway?”
He shrugs. “Friends.”
“And they all happen to be ridiculously good-looking,” I mutter, annoyed. He smirks, before one of his admirers tugs on his arm.
“Babe, show me around this place.”
“Of course, Natalia . . .” Noah winks at me and moves off, leaving me alone with the shot glasses.
What the hell.
I down one and wince, but funnily enough, it doesn’t immediately make me forget what a massive liability this party is. I’m pretty sure it’s against the house-sitting code of practice to throw a massive party, and if anything gets damaged or broken . . .
Shit!
As I look around, wondering who these people are, I see a stunning brunette who looks like she’s about eight feet tall even without her heels. She’s being chatted up by some guy and then as I watch, they both sit on the sofa, putting their sweating glasses on the wood table. Directly on the wood table.
“Oh God!” I cry and rush over to get them on coasters. “Sorry,” I say to them. “Just . . . you know. Water rings.”
They look at me like I’m a psychopath, but whatever. Then I hear a chorus of laugh-yelling from down the hall. I half-jog down to the games room to see what’s going on. There is a group of people huddled around the pool table, trying to do trick shots into a glass of booze sitting right on the felt.
I don’t know a lot about pool tables, but I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to spill alcohol all over them. Or tear them up with a cue.
“Hey, you guys,” I say with what I hope is a breezy smile as I pluck the glass off the table. “Trick shots are way cool, but maybe use an empty glass, huh?”
Just as they reluctantly agree, I hear laughter down the hall. What now? I pivot to hurry to the source.
Since when did laughter mean trouble? Feeling like an old fuddy-duddy, and only partly because I’m using the term fuddy-duddy to describe myself, I rush back down the hall. The laughing is coming from the theater room.
I stop in the doorway. All the recliners are filled—some with couples squished together. And oh my God, these people are eating popcorn and watching porn. On a big screen. A really big screen. In 4K. That’s way too much detail for naked close-up body parts.
I avert my eyes to see there’s popcorn all over the floor. I hope that’s all that is all over the floor.
Gross. I’m about to go upstairs to make sure this frat party hasn’t moved into the bedrooms, when I hear another chorus of cheering that I follow into the living room.
It’s then that I see a guy in front of the fireplace and he’s got the chicken. THE chicken—the fugly crystal one with its own spotlight that I’m sure is Viv’s pride and joy. The guy isn’t just holding it to admire its wattle or whatever. No, he’s got it in front of his crotch like he’s humping it. The crowd around him is laughing and starts chanting, “Ride the cock! Ride the cock!”
“Put it down!” I cry, but nobody seems to hear me.
“Hey, man!” I hear and turn to see Noah coming out of the kitchen, shaking his head but grinning at the same time. “Put that chicken down.”
I’m closer, so I rush over to the guy. “Seriously,” I gulp. “You’re hilarious, but why don’t we just put that away?” I go to reach for the chicken, but the guy swings away.
“No way!” he hollers “Don’t choke the chicken!”
“Dude,” Noah mock scolds as he reaches for the figurine. “C’mon man, gimme the damn thing before you break it.”
The dude sighs. “Fine. You’re no fun anymore, Hathaway. You used to be fun.”
“I’m plenty fun,” Noah says, carefully taking the figurine out of his hands. I breathe a sigh of relief. Safe again!
“Here,” I say, holding out my hand. “I’ll go lock it away somewhere. At least until yo
ur rampaging friends are gone.”
“We can just put it on a high shelf,” he says.
“You think you’re more responsible?” I ask, grabbing hold of it. “Look around, buster. I’m not the one trashing this place!”
“Neither am I. Eve, I told you, I got this!”
I look around and realize every single one of his friends is staring at me. Disapprovingly. Like I’m ruining the party.
“Fine,” I sigh. “Just be careful!”
I let go. Just as he tugs. Hard.
I watch as it flies in slow motion in a lazy arc across the room . . . Where it lands on the floor with a tremendous SMASH.
Fuck-a-doodle-do.
7
Eve
“Shiiiiiiiiit,” Noah says.
I have no words.
“Well, it ain’t a party till something gets broke!” someone snorts, and everyone laughs.
Except me. I hurry over, but the chicken has been reduced to a million shards—no way we could ever crazy-glue the thing back together.
“We’re screwed,” I wail, using my arm to sweep the pieces of the figurine (and puddles of tequila) into a pile. I visualize having to tell Viv and Colin (who I’ve never even met!) that we destroyed their beloved chicken.
And then them calling the cops.
And then me being hauled off to jail.
I take deep breaths so I don’t throw up tequila on the remnants of the chicken. I don’t look good in orange!
“We’re so screwed,” I sob again.
“We’re not screwed,” Noah says from behind me.
I whirl on him. “Are you kidding? We annihilated the chicken!” I look around at the crowd—everyone’s returned to their partying, having already forgotten the chicken. There’s laughing from down the hall and even some faint moaning that I seriously hope is coming from the porn and isn’t a live-action show. “You need to shut this down. Right fucking now.”
Noah shrugs and reaches for the tequila bottle. “I’m not shutting down anything other than your freak-out. Here, have some medicine.”
I push the bottle away. “This is not a joke, Noah.”
“There’s nothing we can do about it now.” He gives a carefree smile—the smile of a man whose godparents would never have him carted off to jail. “People are having a good time, the chicken’s dead, we’ll get a new one tomorrow.”
A new one! Yes! Problem solved!
I carefully sift through the broken pieces until I find one with some writing etched on it. Lalique, the lettering says. I get out my phone and start Googling.
Lalique + crystal + chicken. It has to be on eBay, right? Old junk is always on eBay!
Then my heart drops.
“Oh no. No, no, no!” I cry.
“What?”
I gulp and turn my phone toward him.
“TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS?” he exclaims, sagging back in shock. “For THAT?”
“What was that you said about us not being screwed?” I say, hysterical laughter bubbling up in my throat. “They’re going to sue us. I’m going to lose this gig and my place and . . . not that it’s much of a place to lose, but still! I’ll have a record and then I won’t be able to ever pet-sit ever again! Or wait, could we get charged? Could I end up in jail over this? I’m not cut out for jail. I need to wash my hair in special shampoo to stop the frizz! This is a disaster—OH MY GOD, why are you smiling?!”
Noah has a boyish grin twitching on the edge of his mouth. “You’re turning a funny shade of purple.”
I manage to keep from stomping my feet because I’m pretty sure that would send him over the edge.
“This isn’t funny!”
He laughs. “We broke the cock. That’s pretty funny.”
“What are you, like ten years old?” I exclaim.
“Aw, come on. Don’t you have a sense of humor?”
“Not about this!” I cry. “What are we going to do?”
“We,” he drawls, taking a swig from the tequila bottle, “are going to return to having a good time. It may be our last night of freedom, after all.”
I fold my arms. “Stop mocking me.”
“Stop freaking out,” he counters.
“You are seriously such an irresponsible, selfish asshole!” I yell, not even caring that his friends are all around. I storm upstairs to my bedroom—only to find a couple making out on my bed.
“Out!” I yell, and clearly turning purple has something to recommend, because they take one look at me and flee.
I slam the door, and lock it for good measure. Then I collapse onto the bed, my mind reeling. I need to tell Viv what happened and face the consequences. I open up a text, my thumb hovering over the letters. Although . . . if I tell her now, she might freak out and demand I get out immediately. Do I really want to have to leave tonight?
I close the text window and put my phone down. Maybe it’ll be better in the morning. No good can come from telling her now.
And maybe by morning, I’ll have some semblance of a plan.
Or not. Because after a night of anxiety-induced tossing and turning, I’m still coming up blank on the whole “avoid jail and a life of debt” plan. I haul myself out of bed reluctantly and go down to let out the dogs.
I’m greeted by the aftermath of what looks like a hurricane, aka Noah’s party. Red cups, beer and liquor bottles, food, garbage, and God, that pile of chicken parts in the middle of the floor.
It’s a mess, but you know what’s not here? Noah.
I can’t believe he left all this for me. What a selfish asshole! Does he think I’m his damn maid?
With a loud huff, I start by putting all the bottles and cups in recycling and then I grab a garbage bag.
“What are you doing?”
I look up. Noah’s standing in the doorway. He’s looking impossibly chipper in low-slung jeans and a tight black T-shirt, his hair messy in a way that does something to make my long-ignored lady parts take notice, despite how pissed I am at him right now. He’s holding a paper coffee cup in each hand, which makes me realize he’s got a guest back in the pool house. Fan-fucking-tastic.
“What does it look like,” I bite out. “Cleaning up after your party!”
He comes toward me and puts the coffees down on the counter before he takes the bag out of my hand. “Stop. You don’t need to clean up.”
“I don’t see you doing it!”
He smiles. “Because I have a cleaning service coming. Did you think I’d just leave this for you to clean up alone?”
Well, yes.
“Oh,” I say, dropping onto a kitchen stool. “Did you also figure out what to do about the chicken?”
“No.” He makes a grimacing face. “Not yet.”
“Well,” I nod toward the back yard, “you’d better get back to your guest before her coffee gets cold.”
“Guest?”
I point at the coffee. “Unless you’re really thirsty.”
“Oh,” he says, chuckling. “That’s for you. I can’t figure out that coffee machine, so.” He slides the coffee toward me. “I’m not sure how you take it, but I guessed cream, and you can add your own sugar. You know, since you have plenty.”
I pause. “Thanks.” I take a sip and feel at least 0.5 percent better. But it doesn’t solve the biggest problem, the chicken in the room. “I think we need to come clean about the figurine. We should call them, right now.”
Noah looks reluctant. “I don’t want to ruin their trip,” he says. “They haven’t been away in forever, they’ve been looking forward to this. Maybe we can just buy them a new one. They never need to know.”
“Noah . . .” I squeeze the bridge of my nose with my thumb and forefinger. “I know you had a lot of booze last night, so maybe you don’t remember that I googled the thing and it costs ten thousand dollars. I do not have ten thousand dollars lying around. Do you?”
He pauses. “Not exactly, no.”
“Well?”
He looks hopeful. “We have time. We
can just earn it.”
I blink at him. “Earn ten thousand dollars in three weeks. Doing what?”
“Maybe we can sell the video of that dude humping it, or . . . try to crowdfund it. People love contributing to stupid shit online.”
“No, they love contributing to people’s heartwarming charity stories and crushing medical bills. This is neither!”
He takes a deep breath. “Look, I know you’re stressed out right now, and I get it. But we can think of something.”
“How?”
“By not being so negative, for starters,” he points out. “You won’t get anywhere with a bad attitude.”
“Seriously?” I cry, disbelieving. “My bad attitude is not the problem here. Your drunken asshole friends are the problem! I told you that party was a terrible idea, if you’d just shut it down and sent everyone home the way I’d said—”
“Oh no, you don’t get to blame me.” Noah wags his finger at me. “You’re the one who grabbed it out of my hands—”
“—Because you were going to ruin everything—”
“—which somehow you did anyway!”
We both stop. Noah takes a deep breath. “Look, however we got into this situation, we’re in it. Together. So now we both have to come up with a solution to fix it.”
“Again: how?”
“I don’t know just yet!” He looks frustrated. “Maybe if you weren’t yelling at me, I’d have some time to figure it out.”
“Great,” I declare. “You do that. I look forward to hearing your genius proposal!”
I turn on my heel and storm out. Noah says we’ll fix this somehow, but I can’t see how. If I had ten grand—or even five grand, if we split the blame—I wouldn’t be living in a shared house, doing odd jobs to scrape together money just to eat. I can barely cover health insurance most months, let alone a crystal chicken.
I can only hope to hell Noah knows what he’s doing.
8
Noah
“What am I going to do?” I groan into my double espresso and bagel, because: last night’s tequila. And also last night’s mistakes. I hate to admit it, but Eve was right. The party was a bad idea that went from “mildly irresponsible” to “really fucking reckless” at the drop of a—well, an impossibly expensive crystal chicken.
