Page 11 of Elusive

I can’t help it, enough’s enough. I laugh right out loud — the full-body shaking, hard to breathe, water leaking from your eyes kind. This chick kept it hidden, well, for a while, but she is certifiably, padded-room, five-point restraint, draw pictures on the wall with your own shit crazy! When I said “pump the brakes,” one of her personalities obviously instead heard, “floor the fucking gas and drive straight off Crazy Cliff.” Much like no “version” of her listened the first time I said we were through.

Once I can talk without laughing, I say the only thing I can think to. “Hailey, sit here for a minute and try to calm down. I’ll be right back. Can you do that, just sit here, settle, not follow me?” Truth is, I need a minute too, no idea what to do with, or about, her. Nice isn’t working, and I can’t beat her ass. Seems shitty to call the cops. So yeah… I got nothing.

She nods, and despite myself, I kiss her forehead before bolting into the bathroom and locking the door. What happens next, happens by itself, some weird sixth-sense shit I guess. Out of nowhere — okay, maybe not nowhere, she did just grace my doorstep, out of nowhere — gut instinct takes over, and not only do I know just the person to ask for advice — without actually asking for specific advice, of course — but I’m already typing out a text.

Me: You don’t have a dog, right?

That’s good stuff, Sutton… a subtle hint where you’re headed… that, if this explodes in your face, there’s a small chance of arguing was merely a random question sprung from boredom. Except, she’ll never fall for it.

Like a fucking champ, she responds instantly.

Hot Shot: You’ve been to my place. Did you see a dog?

Me: That’s why I said right. If you did, what would you name it?

Hot Shot: Boy or girl?

Hailey called him “Mister” Bagel or whatever…

Me: Boy

Hot Shot: What kind/breed?

Me: IDFK. Does it matter?

Hot Shot: Of course it matters. P.S. you don’t get to text me dumb shit this early in the morning then whine like a pussy if the necessary follow-up questions are too hard for you. What. Kind. Of. Dog?

“Hailey?” I yell through the door. “What kind of dog do you have?”

“Cocker Spaniel, why?”

“Just wondering.”

Me: Cocker Spaniel.

Hot Shot: As if I didn’t already know what this was about… I see you finally spotted the picture. Nothing gets past you. LMAO. Anyway, that’d be a HELL NO for me. Those bastards turn mean on a dime and bite. And their eyes constantly leak, look all wet and gooky in the corners. Make it a mutt and you have a deal.

I mean fuck… this unique, unexpected, fascinating woman. Only she would answer like that — even though she knows exactly why I’m asking — turning my shitastic morning completely upside down.

Me: Okay, it’s a boy mutt. What would you name him?

Hot Shot: He’s adopted from the pound?

I chuckle as I type.

Me: Sure.

“Sutton, what’s taking you so long? Are you sick?” Hailey asks.

“Yep, I’m sick. My stomach’s messed up bad, it’s diarrhea, won’t stop,” I fake a loud groan, “might be a while.”

“My poor baby,” she coos. “Can I get you anything?”

Why yes, an escape route and new lock for my front door.

“No, that’s okay.” What the fuck? I bet I could invite her in to watch, help wipe my ass, and she still wouldn’t leave. Is diarrhea not an automatic turn-off anymore?

Hot Shot: Did you or your phone die?

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