Page 12 of The Kiss Principle

“Dakota’s going to kill you for wearing your boots inside,” I said.

With a grunt, Lou moved past me and got two mason jars full of cold water from the fridge. She handed me one, opened hers, and drank deeply.

“You know, it’s a real fucking shame that the only people I know with literally unlimited weed happen to be a couple of vegan lesbians who won’t even keep beer in the house.”

“And it’s a real fucking shame you’ve got a gut and you’re losing your hair and you smell like snatch from eating out doctors all day,” Lou said. “Life’s full of disappointments.”

“One day, Dakota’s going to run you over with the baler, and I’m going to help her get rid of the body.”

“What are you going to do, princess? Paint her nails for her?”

The smile slipped out before I could stop it. Lou didn’t smile back, not exactly, but her eyes crinkled at the corners. She pointed to a seat, and I sat, and she went to work: pulling dishes out of the refrigerator, lighting the ancient gas stove (which still required a match), dropping a pad of vegan butter in the skillet. It hissed, and a moment later, garlic followed.

Lunch with Lou was a standing appointment. We saw each other once a month. I reminded her that human beings bathed more than once a week and that she might want to scrape the shit out from under her nails before fingering her lovely wife. And she had all sorts of pleasant things to say about my personality. In the craziness after Isabela had appeared, I’d forgotten about the appointment, but once Zé came into the picture, well, things had changed.

“What’s wrong?” Lou asked. “Where’d you stick your dick? And how long are you going to be on antibiotics?”

“Real fucking classy.”

“Is it the drip?”

“Yeah, it’s the fucking drip.”

Tofu sizzled when she dropped it into the pan. Then she turned around and folded her arms.

“It’s Chuy,” I said, slumping in the chair. “It’s a fucking mess.”

When I finished telling her everything, she said, “You need to go to the police.”

“I thought about that.”

“Then why didn’t you? Because in case I misunderstood something, there’s a baby in your house, and you don’t know who it belongs to.”

“Chuy—”

“He’s a junkie! For all you know, he stole that child so he could trade her for a score!”

Lou moved the pan around on the stove, attacking the tofu with a turner. The only sounds were the scrape of metal on metal and the occasional sizzle and sputter.

“I’m worried,” she said in a softer voice. “About you.”

“The baby is his.”

Lou shook her head as she worked the pan back and forth over the flame.

“She’s his,” I said. “And I’m not going to abandon her.”

“Of course you’re not. That’s the whole problem.”

“What do you want me to do, Lou? Put her with some foster family?”

“She has a mother, dumbass.”

“Yeah, what a great fucking mother.”

“You don’t know the first thing about her.”

“Neither do you! But I know Chuy, and even though Chuy is a fuckup in about every way that counts, he wouldn’t hurt a child. Especially not his child. He brought that baby home for a reason.”

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