Page 11 of You're so Bad

Shauna

My grandmother gets home after midnight, laughing as she shuts the door behind her—and I hide in my bedroom with a final beer, feeling like the troll under the bridge. The last thing I want is for her to catch me scrolling through old Facebook photos of Colter, Bianca, and me. Bertie must feel bad for me, because he doesn’t scratch the door to leave despite wagging his little nub of a tail for all he’s worth at the sound of my grandmother’s voice.

Am I an asshole for wanting Colter and Bianca to suffer a bit? I meant what I said to Leonard. I don’t want to ruin their wedding or stop it from happening—they deserve each other. But I wouldn’t mind pricking a pin in their happiness balloon. A slow leak seems to be just what the doctor ordered.

Doctor Leonard, that is.

I guess that’s why I said yes.

I certainly didn’t agree because I liked the way Leonard looked at me earlier. I was a hot mess, from my hair down to my toes with the chipped green polish, but his smoldering gaze suggested he’d like nothing better than to bend me over the porch railing and…

God Almighty, I need to get laid. It’s been eight months since Colter and I broke up, and even though I’ve gone on a couple of dates, none of them have progressed beyond dinner or drinks. Usually drinks to get through the dinners. The only action I’ve gotten was a goodnight kiss that left my mouth tasting like garlic and regret.

The thing is, despite his obvious unsuitability, Leonard is an attractive man.

Okay, fine. Attractive is the word you’d use for a silver fox in a sweater vest. Leonard is hot. He’s as hot as a flaming Cheeto soaked in sriracha and lit on fire, mostly because he’s a little grungy and unsuitable. Which is probably why my natural reaction to him is to focus on every last thing that’s wrong with him.

Lucky for me, he usually gives me plenty of material.

Sighing I throw myself back onto my bed, a queen bed with a soft dove-gray duvet, because if you’re going to live in your grandparents’ house, you’d better have an adult-ass bed.

It must be true that you dream of the last thing you were thinking about before you go to sleep, because in my dreams Leonard is railing me from behind against the porch, well, railing while my next-door neighbor, the sour-faced Mrs. Applebaum, watches with pursed lips from her Adirondack chair. When we finish, she lifts a sign ranking us two point five stars. Based on her sour expression, I’m guessing it’s out of ten, like with figure skating. She obviously doesn’t like me very much, because the dream sexabsolutelyranked an eleven out of ten.

The next morning, I wake up with a headache, a zit that’s expanded to the size of a bee sting, and a lady boner so persistent that I have to shoo Bertie out of the room so I can take out my vibrator.

Can a person go through a mid-life crisis at thirty-one? Because it certainly feels like that’s what’s happening. I don’t evenlikeLeonard. The only possible explanation for this madness is the sexual desert I’ve been marooned in.

After I cover up the zit to the best of my ability and get dressed, I head to the kitchen to sit with my grandmother, hoping she made me some coffee. She did, thank all that’s holy, because the kitchen looks aggressively yellow this morning, and it’s not helping my head. The only person who’s home is Bertie, who’s rooted beside his empty food bowl, giving me accusatory and hopeful looks.

There’s a note on the table saying,

Off to my wet felting class. Have a nice day. I’m sorry again about last night, Shauna, but it sounds like it worked out for the best. Leonard told me you had a nice talk!

“I’ll bet he did,” I grumble before finishing the note—

P.S. Don’t let Bertie fool you. He has been fed and walked.

“I knew it, you little stinker,” I say, pointing a finger at him. He grunts, as if he knows the gig is up, and books it to a fluffy bed by the table. It’s printed with a design of green eggs and ham, and it annoys me to remember that I picked it out with Colter at Craft Me, the store he runs with his mother. I’d burn it, but Bertie’s fond of it, and the practical side of me won’t allow it.

After half a cup of coffee, I’ve managed to bury the sex dream, somewhat, so I check my phone.

There are texts from Delia and Grandpa Frank, whose name my grandmother changed on my phone whileshewas drunk, to Grandpa Fruckface. I’m guessing she didn’t keep the r on purpose, but I kept it that way because it makes me laugh.

Apparently drunken phone meddling is a thing that the women in my family do. Or at least my grandmother and me.

I wouldn’t know what my mother might have done.

I was thirteen when she died, but I barely knew her. The only thing I knew for sure was that she didn’t want me. It’s hard to admit that about someone who’s gone, because it means nothing can be fixed. But it’s no less true.

I check out Delia’s text first:

I want to hear everything about Doctor Leonard! Can you meet Mira and me tomorrow night at the bar? It’s her night off, so it would be just the three of us.

I’m halfway tempted to say no, except it occurs to me that Delia must know Leonard pretty well. They worked on that movie together, and he and Burke have been friends for years. Nana has plenty of Leonard knowledge, too, but if I ask too many questions about him, she’ll become suspicious. Delia doesn’t have a suspicious molecule in her body, so she’s the perfect person for me to interrogate. Maybe she knows more about his past. There was this bleak look in his eyes when he told me his dad was in jail. It made me curious, I guess. It made me feel an unexpected flash of…connection, though I certainly won’t be admitting that to anyone.

I send off a yes, then take a long sip of coffee before reading my grandfather’s latest mea culpa—which doesn’t sound like a mea culpa at all. My grandmother and I aren’t the only stubborn ones in this family.

I sent my last message seven days ago. It’s been twenty days since you sent any kind of response.

---