Page 82 of Cashmere Cruelty

“The ‘big deal,’” I yell, making air quotes as I go for emphasis, “is that hespecificallytold me he wanted none of that!”

“Well, he wanted some last night, that’s for sure.”

“Jay.”

“It’s true, though!”

I sigh. “Co-parents—that’s all we were supposed to be. What now?”

“You can still co-parent and share a bed. You know, most people do it. It’s called ‘being a couple.’”

“But we’renota couple!” I almost scream. “That’s why this was such a bad idea! It’ll be confusing!”

“For who, Nugget?” June asks skeptically.

“At the very least!” I retort. “When it’s old enough to understand.”

“I think it’ll eventually figure out it didn’t come by stork mail, A.”

“Ha. Ha. Ha. Truly comedic genius you’re doling out here.”

“Besides, I hope you’ll keep it down so he doesn’t hear you getting all wanton with it, y’know?”

I smash my head against the wall. Kidding. I wish I had the courage. As things stand, all I do is lean against it, flailing my arms uselessly like a crippled jellyfish. “You are so not helping, Jay.”

“One order of pancakes with extra bacon on the side, coming right up,” June says cheerfully to someone luckier than me. I wish I had pancakes right now. And bacon.

“When did my life go so off-track?” I sigh, heading back for the couch. Theother sideof the couch. The one we didn’t taint with unspeakable acts we’d sworn never to commit again. God, that makes me sound like a nun, doesn’t it?

“It was on a track before?” June asks, puzzled.

I ignore her. “Oh, I know: when a certain Bratva Pikachu pickedmystore to buy a wedding suit instead of ordering online, like every other person born in the twenty-first century.”

“I thought it waspakhan,” June muses.

I scream into a pillow. The pillow doesn’t scream back. It’s already more than I deserve, really. “Fuck my life. Like,fuckmy life.”

“Language,” June chides. “There are minors here.”

“Did you put me onspeaker?”

“Of course you’re not on speaker!” June replies, somewhat offended. “… Now.”

I gauge the distance between myself and the balcony. I could make it. I really could.

“Look, it’s not the end of the world,” June sighs. “So you did the horizontal tango. The spicy salsa.”

“Please stop.”

“The porny polka.”

“June.”

“Alright, alright,” June acquiesces. “No more bad dance metaphors. Go on.”

“You wanna know what the real tragedy is?”

“You know that’s why I’m here, babe. Spit it out.”

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