Page 39 of Turnabout Is Fair Cosplay
“Oh, it varies. Sometimes Mitzy has a lot to say. It’s very important that you do your best to honor her requests.”
“All of them?”
“Yes, she’s a very reasonable cat.” Cheryl hands another treat to Mitzy, who inhales it whole.
I survey the buttons. Her words are organized by categories. Names of toys, activities, feelings, foods. Simple operators. “Does the Instagram button mean she wants to create content or scroll her feed?”
Cheryl laughs breezily. “When do any of us want to post? Mitzy loves reviewing her old content and seeing what her friends are up to.”
I blink. “Of course.”
“Something in your eye, dear?” Cheryl asks.
“I’m just thinking of my old job.”
The cat accidentally bumps the Question Mark button with her back foot. “Hmm?” the recorded Cheryl says.
“Yes, hmm?” The Cheryl in front of me repeats. To me, she says, “Do go on.”
“I used to tell everyone that being in a courtroom felt like herding cats. But Mitzy is more intelligent and has better conversation skills than half the lawyers I used to work with.”
Cheryl bursts into laughter and books me for next Thursday then and there.
It’s a win. To celebrate, I walk back to my cottage along the beach, enjoying the pound of the waves and wet sand. Windansea is a rockier beach than anything we have in Del Mar. Some stretches of sand completely disappear at high tide. The waves dramatically crash on the rocks. The spray fans upward like a geyser. Lots of unsuspecting sunbathers get drenched.
The swells are high today, but choppy. Maybe Mike is right. Maybe this isn’t a beach for learning to surf. Good beach for reading. And yoga, potentially. Would I bring a yoga mat down to the sand? Or spread it on a rock? How does that even work?
My phone buzzes with a text from Mom.Lunch tomorrow. Don’t forget. Looking forward to reviewing your research!Accompanied by a Google Maps location of a Thai restaurant in La Jolla.
I’m suddenly exhausted. Too exhausted to strap on my sandals. Too exhausted to walk around the block to my alley entrance. I cross the street and punch in the code to the gate at the front of the property. I trudge up the stairs and stumble when I reach a little courtyard with birds of paradise, a small lawn, red geraniums, and piles of construction equipment and materials. Up another small flight of stairs is a deck built on top of the detached garage.
I climb the stairs and whimper. The view of the ocean is breathtaking. “Oh my stars.”
Behind the deck is a path to another patio tucked near the house. The framework of a balcony with a set of stairs is going up. Plastic tarps hang over a gaping hole in the side. They part, and Mike appears with a tape measure and carpenter’s pencil. He doesn’t see me.
“‘Take all my loves, my love,’” he says as he measures. “‘Yea, take them all.’” He makes a mark with his pencil before tucking it behind his ear. “‘What hast thou then more than thou hadst before?’”
He turns on a chop saw, and I cover my ears until the grinding stops.
“‘No love, my love,’” Mike continues. “‘That thou mayst true love call.’” He screws the newly cut boards in place. “‘All mine was thine before thou hadst this more.’”
He’s reciting Shakespeare. And not just any Shakespeare. Sonnet 40. I’ve read it a dozen times this past week, wondering if the Bard was just capturing what his sister felt because the man she thought she knew in fiction was, in fact, a man she loathed in real life.
I’d disassociated Mike from the man who wrote about a love so all encompassing and desperate that it consumes and torments the afflicted.Barbed wire electrocuted with passionis what’s written in the margins of this sonnet.Still. The pain is better than the complete absence.That note is inked in my mind.
“‘And yet, love knows it is a greater grief to bear love’s wrong than hate’s known injury.’”
He’s on a balcony reciting Shakespeare, and I’m creeping below, feeling every which way confused. Why? Because I have only half the evidence. Beautifully annotated books. A gorgeous property that feels out of time. An insufferable, cocky man who cosplays as a mob boss clown at my brother’s escape room and dresses like a frat boy. Time for some answers.
“Nice deck,” I call.
Chapter 13
Mike drops his pencil and knocks over a stack of boards. “What are you doing?” he yells. “This is a construction zone.”
I slip my sandals back on. “You told me I was free to use the front entrance by the garage.”
“I could have killed you.”
