I refused to look at him.
“Go down with me?” he—she—asked quietly. “I’ll buy you a frou-frou drink that comes with an umbrella in it.”
“I think I’m going to stay up here for a bit,” I said. “Keep Charlie company.”
She sighed and stood up straight, becoming full-on queen and angry again. “Fine. You stay up here, locked in your fucking ivory princess tower. I’m done trying to help you.”
“I never asked for your help,” I reminded her. “You tried to do it anyway. If I’m so good the way I am, then why are you trying to help me do anything?”
She didn’t say another word and pushed past me, stomping down the stairs as loudly as she could. Even above the dance music that had started to play, I could hear the door slam.
“Boy…,” Charlie said, shaking his head.
“Not in the mood, Daddy,” I grumbled at him. I pulled my chair off to side and in the shadows so I could still see down onto the floor but no one could see me. Eventually, the floor filled again and people started dancing. Mr. Nice Thought While It Lasted came in with his friends. I couldn’t help but notice how he seemed to be looking for someone and would glance up at the balcony every now and then. I started to get this weird warm feeling in my stomach again, but it was gone the moment some big, muscley bear-looking dude came up and started rubbing up on him. He had a spark in his eye as Bear Dude leaned over and whispered something in his ear. He tipped his head back and laughed, and they started dancing all sexy-like, Bear Dude getting a nice handful of his ass as they moved. I looked away.
Charlie sighed but didn’t say a word.
Happy thirtieth birthday to me.
Chapter 3
Dear God: Fuck You
THE next day, Sunday, I awoke in my own bed. Alone, of course.
Well, not completely alone. When I first got Wheels, I’d built this ramp thing that led up to the bed from the floor so Wheels could get up whenever he wanted to. It took him a while to get used to it, and his wheels squeaked when he was climbing up the ramp, but it was better than waking up in the middle of the night because he was trying to jump on his wheels to get onto the bed.
So I opened my eyes, not even remotely hungover, remembering I was now thirty, in a fight with my best friend, and had probably missed meeting the man who would undoubtedly be the love my life but was now probably waking up in Bear Dude’s bed, all because I was a gigantic vagina. Not that he’d actually been looking at me seriously.
Blargh.
“You still love me?” I asked Wheels, reaching up to scratch behind his ears, his tongue lolling out in that way he does when he knows he’s going to get his scratch on.
In books and movies, when asked a question by his lonely owner, a dog would most likely reach up and lick his master’s face in a way that let the master know that the world might be scary sometimes, but it would all be okay eventually. But my life is not a book or a movie and instead of licking my face, Wheels farted and then barfed up the section of carpet he’d been gnawing on when I’d gotten home last night.
“Augh!” I cried, trying to roll away. Of course, Wheels thought we were playing a game and tried to crawl after me, running his cart through his own vomit, spreading it over my sheets as he rolled. “No, you gross two-legged monster!” I shouted at him, but he was already distracted by his own vomit and started to eat it and I gave serious thought to urking up a bit myself, but then I realized I would just be feeding him even more, and I had to turn away. As soon as I got myself under control, I heard my phone ring.
“Hello,” I said, running to the bathroom to get a towel.
“Hi, baby!” my mom said.
“Hi, Mom,” I sighed. “Listen, now’s not the best—”
“Your father is on the line as well,” she said, interrupting me.
“Dad.”
“Hello, son,” Dad said.
Ah, Matilda (Matty) and Lawrence (Larry) Auster. My parents. You can’t say I haven’t warned you.
“How did last night go?” Mom asked. “Did you get any play?”
“It is way too fucking early for this,” I muttered, grabbing my bath towel and warming it under the water.
“Language,” my father warned.
“Sorry.”
“Well?” my mother demanded.
“Sandy called you, didn’t he?”
“Oh yes,” she gushed. “He asked me how much I thought you would try to murder him if he pulled you down on stage with him.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“That you’d probably crap yourself on stage,” she said.
“Language,” my father snapped.