Page 2 of Bears Behaving Badly
and shuddered. “You’ve gotta know the answer is a vehement ‘Oh dear God, not even on a bet.’”
“And yet.” She took a bite, relishing the overcooked bottom and the undercooked top. “It’s important to start the day off right.”
“Self-induced salmonella is not starting the day off right. Are you okay?” Pat was 55 percent legs, 20 percent hair, and 25 percent heart, and had a horror of people discovering the latter. So before Pat could express concern—who’d know better than her lunatic roommate that Andrea’s job was dangerous?—he had to insult her breakfast. “You got in late.”
“One of my kids got pinched for shoplifting. I went out to make sure they had a decent bed for him.”
“Let me guess.”
“Don’t guess. You know I can’t talk about it.”
“Dev Devoss.”
“What did I just saaaaay?”
“You talk about that kid in your sleep. Seriously, you yell at him in your dreams.” Pat drummed his fingers on the countertop, already involved in early-morning plotting. “I’ve gotta meet him.”
“Never happen.”
“And here I was the idiot hoping you were out on a date with Donald.”
She almost dropped her fork. Pat had a tendency to read her mind, and she was in no mood to be teased for her recurring fantasy, which had now invaded her dreams. “David.”
“I honestly don’t care, Annette. Stop playing with your food before you eat it. That’s literalandfigurative, by the way.”
“I’m not following.”
“Call or text Derwood—”
“David.”
“Still don’t care. Call him or text him or homing pigeon him and then brutally and enthusiastically shag him silly.”
Oh, sure. As if it were that simple.“And then?”
Her roommate looked taken aback. “How should I know? I’m all about the setup, not what comes after. Give him cab fare? Or a wedding ring? My point is—”
“I know what your point is.” She brought the flat of her butter knife down on Pat’s knuckle just as the duplicitous wretch was about to snitch some ham. “Nice mani, by the way.”
“Thanks. Wouldn’t kill you to sit still for one, either.”
“Never. If I can’t read during a procedure, I won’t endure it.”
“God help us if you ever need surgery, then.” Pat inspected his nails, which were spade-shaped and the color of glossy pink pearls. “Got an interview.”
“I figured. The suit and all.”
Pat was wearing one of his brother’s navy-blue pin-striped suits with a crisp white shirt and a pale-blue tie dotted with poppies that looked like blood clots. Though he wouldn’t leave the house, Pat was a big believer in “dress for the job you want, not the job you have.” Which led to some confusion the month he wanted to be a park ranger. (“I don’t care if it’s five below; this is what rangers wear!”) And the following month, when he wanted to be a hippotherapist. (“If you’re going to do physical therapy with horses, this is what it takes!”)
“I’m letting you change the subject in your clumsy and obvious way because I’ve said my piece—”
“OhGod,if only that were true.”
“—and because I want you to get what this means. No longer will I be the homeless parasite suckling at your 24-acre teat!” Pat declared.
“Okay, gross.” Not to mention inaccurate. Pat insisted on paying $666.66 every other month, and he was far from homeless. “You know you don’t have to get another job on my account.”
“This isn’t about you or your account. It’s about me getting a job within these four walls before I go crazy within these four walls.”
