Page 43 of Dearly Unbeloved
“What are their names again?”
“That’s Thorne,” she says, nodding to the rabbit on my lap. “And this is Dibbles.”
“Dibbles? Jesus. I don’t suppose you’re open to changing that?”
“Nope. They’re both around two and a half, and that would just confuse them.”
“Great.” Thorne and… Dibbles. “I guess we’re moms now.”
20
SIERRA
Did you seriously replace the flowers I threw out? One. Vase. It’s a rule, not a suggestion. - R
P.S. 66 days
I’m never telling anyone I like hiking again. What kind of person agrees to a 9 a.m. hike on a Saturday? Rose, that’s who. Being awake before ten on a weekend is criminal.
I mean, would I have been awake anyway, since Dibbles and Thorne demand food at seven on the dot every morning? Sure, but Icouldbe snuggled up in bed watching them eat their breakfast greens. Instead, I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor beside the new enclosure Maggie made them, wearing a bra and pants atthisgodforsaken hour, hand feeding them long pieces of kale with my eyes closed.
Their happy little crunches have quickly become one of my favorite sounds. Unlike the soft footsteps that approach.
“Morning, babies,” Rose coos, and I force my eyes opento watch her crouching down to scratch them both between their ears. Considering how pissed off she was when I brought them home, she sure has come around. I swear she’s like a different person with them.
I didn’t realize she could be so nice with her clothes on. Who knew?
Her happy expression disappears when she looks at me. “Do you want to pick up coffee on?—”
“Yes.”
“Alright, grumpy. Let’s go.”
I bite my tongue, trying not to snap at her as I trail her to the front door, well aware that I agreed to this trip when she asked. Did I agree only because I’d just brought home the bunnies and she was already mad? Maybe, but a deal’s a deal. And I do like hiking—at a more civilized hour.
Rose is wearing black leggings she usually wears for running, a cream tank, and an oversized plaid shirt, the color of fall leaves, that makes the gold in her eyes pop. It’s a cute outfit, but she ruins it completely when she sits down on the bench by the door and pulls a pair of boots out of a bag.
“What the fuck are those?”
She furrows her brow at me, pausing with one boot halfway up her calf. “They’re boots. For hiking.”
“No. They’re metallic pink cowboy boots. Where the hell did they come from?” I’m not a cowboy boot fan at the best of times, but these are… hideous. Shiny and garish, in a shade of pink that’s somewhere between Pepto-Bismol and shrimp.
“I borrowed them from Jazz. I don’t have hiking boots,and she wore these when she went hiking on her honeymoon.”
Of course they’re Jazz’s. I have a vague memory of her claiming to be in hercowboy boot erafor a couple of weeks last year, when she started wearing black boots to work, and I’m not surprised she bought multiple pairs. Naturally, I haven’t seen her in a single pair of boots in months.
“You can’t wear those. They’re not hiking boots.” It’s too fucking early for this.
“Jazz said they were comfy!” Rose protests, and I palm my face. Jesus.
“Jazz didn’t go hiking on her honeymoon. Yes, they went to see a mountain with the intention of climbing it, but they just took pictures from the ground, then went back to the hotel and… climbed each other.”
Disgust contorts her face, and she drops the boots. “Oh my god.Inthe boots?”
“I don’t have that much detail, and I don’t want it. But you can’t wear those. What shoe size are you?”
“An eight.”
