Page 55 of Kind of a Bad Idea

I shake my head. “Nah, I like my sausages hot.” I wiggle beneath him, humming happily at the feel of his cock still buried inside me.

He laughs. “Thanks, but seriously, I’m starving. Despair followed by hot sex makes me hungry.”

I nod. “Me, too. Let’s go eat all the things.”

So, we do. Then we turn on the speaker and dance to a John Denver song Seven says reminds him of me, and I cry a little.

But it’s a happy cry.

I’m so happy, nothing can bring me down.

Not even arriving home Friday morning to find a five-page letter from my mother detailing all the ways I’ve let her down.

I simply burn the letter—very therapeutic, would highly recommend—and leave her a voicemail saying, “I love you, Mom, but I meant what I said at the cabin. I’m living my life in my integrity now, not yours. Also, Seven and I are a couple. I’m in love and so happy. I would love for you to be happy for me, but if you can’t, that’s okay, too. Keeping your lips zipped is an excellent second choice.”

I end the message with a sigh and tell Mr. Prickles, “Yeah, I know. It’s not nearly as hard as I thought it would be. I should have stood up to her years ago.”

Mr. Prickles agrees.

Then, he has a few choice words to speak of his own on the subject of the fur potato currently making himself at home in our space.

“I know, I know,” I say, watching Tater Tot tear apart one of the old dog toys Keanu Reeves left here the last time he slept over. “But turns out his bottom teeth need to be filed by humans.”

It’s some kind of birth defect, and that’s why they stick out so much. We noticed Tater Tot really starting to struggle to eat even apple slices by our last day there. It was like his lips were getting tangled up in his own teeth or something.

Seven called a vet friend of his to ask about it once Wendy Ann returned with our cell phones. He came out to do an exam and in just a few minutes delivered the news that Tater Tot was never going to be able to live successfully in the wild long term. Then, the vet said he would fast track my application to be on his animal rescue team, so I could legally keep the fur potato as a pet, so…

“He’s a sweetheart, really,” I add to my cranky cactus. “I promise. He’ll grow on you. Like a sweet, grunty fungus.”

Mr. Prickles shoots me a sharply needled look.

I lift my hands in the air. “I know, I hate rodents, too, but…look at him. He’s precious. And he’s had his shots and the vet filed his teeth. He’s at least fifty percent less creepy looking than he was before, and Seven promised to shift him over to living at his place as soon as we see if he’s comfortable around the chickens.”

Mr. Prickles rolls his spines and mutters something about poultry being for eating, not cuddling.

“Oh, come on, don’t be that way. You know Sprout loves her chickens.” I pick him up, cooing closer to his pokey little cactus belly. “And I love you. We’re going to find a way to blend into one big, happy family. I promise.”

And…we do.

Three months later, I’m fully moved in with my new family at Seven’s place, where I intend to stay for the next hundred years.

Or however long the universe gives me.

No matter how long it is, I already know it won’t be long enough.

Epilogue

Wendy Ann McGuire

The last single McGuire sibling standing.

(Or rather, running, away from her mother’s

matchmaking as fast as her spindly

nerd legs can carry her…)

“All those tattoos. I’ll never understand it.” Mom sighs and shakes her head, but there’s a smile tugging at her lips as she adds, “Though they looked nice with the flowers she chose for the bouquet.”

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