Page 62 of The Rom-Commers

“He’s a Peruvian long-hair,” Charlie said. “His name is Cuthbert.”

“Is he yours?” I asked, in a baffled tone that might also have been saying,What is an adult man doing with a pet guinea pig named Cuthbert?

“Kind of,” Charlie said. “Not really. Not anymore. He’s my wife’s. Ex-wife’s. She rescued him and his brother back when we were still married—kind of without asking me. Then she took them when she moved out. Though we technically have joint custody.”

I looked back and forth between Charlie and the guinea pig. “Has he been here this whole time?”

Charlie shook his head. “I’m pig-sitting. Just while my wife’s out of town.”

“Ex-wife,” I corrected. Then I said, “Why is he in a tiny little fabric barn?”

“They like to hang out in little hidey tents. My ex has a whole collection. A circus tent, an igloo, a beehive. Even one shaped like an Airstream.”

“But—doesn’t he escape?”

Charlie shook his head. “He’ll stay like that for hours.”

“Did you say he has a brother?” I asked, looking around.

“His brother just died,” Charlie said. “So he’s pretty depressed. They’re herd animals.”

I looked at Cuthbert, and Cuthbert looked at me.

“Can I pick him up?” I asked.

Charlie shook his head. “They don’t like the feeling of being lifted up,” he said. “It makes them feel like they’ve been snatched by an eagle.”

“How do you know how guinea pigs feel? About anything?”

That’s when Charlie Yates, divorced custody-sharing guinea pig sitter, said, “I know what I know.”

This was definitely a shocker. Charlie Yates with a pet.

But Charlie wasn’t shocked at all.

He watched me watch Cuthbert for a minute, and then said in a stage whisper, “It’s two in the morning. Go back to bed.”

BUT I DIDN’Tgo back to bed.

Instead, I went back to my room, studied my bride-of-Frankenstein reflection in the mirror, and then tried to de-humiliate myself by putting my hair up, and brushing my teeth, and retying my robe—attempting to retroactively make myself presentable.

Somewhere in all that, I realized that the earthquake was still happening.

Everything was still shaking, I mean.

Except it wasn’t everything. It was justme.

More specifically, it was my heart. Doing that crazy new thumping thing again. I put my hand over it and felt it hurl itself against my palm over and over, like I’d trapped some magical beast in there—and it desperately wanted to get out.

Without much hesitation, I shuffled back to where Charlie was. Flip-flops on the correct feet this time.

Charlie stood this time as I showed up again—as ifonerandom middle-of-the-night interruption was tolerable, buttwowas cause for alarm. He was in sweatpants, I now noticed, and a T-shirt with a StephenKing quote on it that said,THE ROAD TO HELL IS PAVED WITH ADVERBS.

Were those his pajamas? It was such an odd sight. But did I think he slept in an Oxford and corduroys?

“I’m so sorry,” I said, making my way closer to him. “Can I ask you another question?”

“Sure,” Charlie said.

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