The evening didn’t go as planned.
Because someone shot you in the face?
At ten o’cloc, right in the middle of a dart game, Piper’s cell phone rang.
And while she was distracted, someone shot you in the face?
Even above the din of the bar I could hear Brandon’s cry, an ugly howl, the kind that leads to a red face and snotty nose.
Brandon is a TODDLER. You’re bitching at a toddler. For being a toddler. That’s a new low.
“Brandon is going through this thing where he won’t go to bed for anyone but me, and he’s crying himself into hysteria. You understand, right?” She met my eyes, and I nodded. I understood all right.
Wait! Is that… is that Lola being a decent human being? I flipped the page.
What I understood was that Mike was a complete imbecile. How was it he could manage other people’s vast fortunes but couldn’t put a one-year-old to bed? How hard could it be? He outweighed the kid by a hundred and sixty pounds.
I don’t want to read this book anymore.
Dear lord. Lola is a horrible horrible person. I need a cupcake.
hey look, scenery!
the neat lawns, mature trees, and elegant older homes. Each house was two stories tall and most were brick, but no two were the same. Belinda had the only contemporary house on the block; southwestern in style, it also had the only attached garage. The garage had a lfat roof, and in the evening she often let her dogs exit a bedroom window onto the top. Two of them, a little ankle-nipper
lalala I can’t hear your insults over the sound of this delicious cupcake
she called Baxter, and a larger husky mix whose name eluded me, were up there now. […]
Next to Beinda’s house was a duplex rented out to college students. Out for the night, judging from the dark and silence.
Or maybe just at a bar getting shitty at their friends about their babies.
The next one, Crazy Myra’s house, was just as still. She was known as an early riser.
So the college kids can’t be sleeping? Myra can’t be out for the night? Mm strawberry cupcake.
The house across the street from Crazy Myra’s
oh my god call her that ONE MORE TIME I fucking DARE you. Cupcake. Tasty cupcake. Must focus on cupcake.
belonged to the mystery man.
oh for Christ’s sake, how cliche.
“He says he’s a consultant,” Belinda [had] said, […] “But no one can quite figure out what it is he does, exactly. And get this,” she [had] said, leaning in closer, “he never puts out garbage.”
“Never?” Even I found that curious.
“Not once in the two years he’s lived here.”
Ooh! Is he a vampire? Can this be a vampire story? Can he eat her?
Mystery Man’s home is dark, and Brother Jasper smokes.
Just ahead, my porch light beamed […]. Inside, the dining room light shone brightly. I’d never realized how much of the room could be seen from the sidewalk when the drapes were open.
I stopped, puzzled. I hadn’t left the dining room light on. And I certainly hadn’t left the drapes wide open.
Rules out vampires — they need permission to enter. A serial killer perhaps? A werewolf? Hubert?
Lola, saturated in an understandable and realistic fear, goes to Brother Jasper. Good move, that — get someone else to come in with you instead of going into what might be a bad situation alone. Jasper goes one further and suggests calling the police.
“Do you think they’d come?” […]
“Of course they’ll come, Lola. That’s what they do.”
Oh, to be upper-class and (mostly?) white.
Three asterisks, matching the three empty cupcake wrappers on my table. I’m going to stop here for the night.