Page 73 of The Love Bandits

I get going with the emails, clicking through to the first.

I’d like a dozen of your fuck you very much cookies delivered to my husband on Tuesday at noon. At his office. During his presentation. It’ll totally throw him off his game.

Or…is that mean?

I don’t know how to feel.

Peter said he wanted a baby, and he acted so excited when I told him I was pregnant. He cried. We cried TOGETHER. But then he cheated on me. A lot. My hands are shaking while I write this. I still don’t want to believe it, but I know it’s true, because I walked in on him with his head between a woman’s legs. He tried to pretend he was helping her look for a tick, but I’m not an idiot. And then I found the emails…

Please help.

My jaw flexes. I think of my own mother, left alone and pregnant at eighteen. Maybe she wouldn’t have made the decisions she did if she’d had any support. Probably so, but I’ll never know. I type my response.

No,Peter deserves 10x worse. In fact, the cookies are on me. Can I recommend an assortment of Fuck You Very Much and Peter, Peter Pussy Eater cookies? If you’re ready to take the next step: a cookie reading “I want a divorce” would make a memorable centerpiece.

If you need proof of his income for child support, let us know. We have P.I.s on staff. We can help you out, no problem.

Then I put together a quick spreadsheet on my Jake Jeffries laptop, adding a note about the order, the method for delivery,and who’ll be paying for it, and move on to respond to the next message, from a woman who wants to warn her ex-boyfriend’s new girlfriend that he has herpes.

First off: does he actually have herpes? If not, I’m thinking there are liability issues. If the herpes is documented, then hell yeah, we can help you with that. Maybe we can even soften the message by sending a “He has a herpes” cake or cookie. We have a standing relationship with Rainy Day Bakery.

There, now I’ve put in a plug for Lainey’s friend’s bakery too. I got the name off the sticker sealing those cookies the other night.

I move on to the next email, surprised to realize that I’m enjoying myself, just like I was the other day when I broke into that house with Damien. There’s something fulfilling in helping Lainey mete out justice—like she’s a superhero, and I’m her trusty sidekick. Even if she doesn’t know it yet.

I move on to the next message.

I need some help.

Can you pretend you’re a man and send me some texts to make my boyfriend jealous? Or, like, emails from a dating app?

He cheated on me with my mother.

Well, goddamn. Someone who has worse mother issues than I do. I have a feeling Therapist Jake Jeffries could do more for her than any thirst trap messages would, but Jake Jeffries hasthe sad problem of not existing. I lean back in the chair, tapping my foot against the desk, then respond:

Who does that? We’re sorry you’re going through this.

Sure, I’d be happy to make him jealous if it makes you feel better (I’m Lainey’s friend, and I am a guy), but you want my honest opinion, you’d be better off putting a “motherfucker” banner on his front door, or maybe his car. This guy’s not going to learn his lesson.

Then maybe you can take yourself on a nice shopping spree—with his credit card if you have it!—and post some photos of you having fun and not giving a shit on social media.

What do you think?

I click through to the next email and grimace at the photo that’s front and center—a gorgeous blonde woman with her arms around a guy who, no shit, looks like a basset hound.

My fiancé broke my heart. I thought he loved me, but we went on vacation with his friend and his friend’s fiancée in the Poconos, and all three of us walked in on him and the receptionist.

“Plot twist,” I mutter to myself.

“What are you doing in my chair?” asks a familiar voice from the doorway.

I’ve been so intent on my work that I didn’t even hear Elaine come through the front door down the hall.

I set the burner phone down, glancing at the door. It takes me a second to realize that what I’m feeling—my heart thumping faster, my palms sweaty—is excitement.

Elaine looks tired, not that I’m stupid enough to ever say that to a woman. She’s nonetheless sexy, obviously. She’d probably be sexy even in a Nickelback T-shirt. Those Band-Aids from last night are still slathered over her hand, and despite waking up at an unreasonable hour to go to Smith House, she managed to put her short hair into some kind of bun. Her red sweater’s different from the one she had on the night we met, but the color repetition suggests it’s one of her favorites. It suits her, just like this room does. It’s hardly an undercover color, but she’s hardly an undercover woman. She draws the eye—making a man look twice, thrice, a thousand fucking times.

A voice in my head suggests I shouldn’t be thinking about her like that, or this much…

---