Page 52 of Love and Other Risky Business

What if I’m a disappointment?

I punch that thought in the throat. I’m not a disappointment, whatever my stupid cheating ex said. He was trying to find excuses for his actions. The way Timothy looks at me—I don’t think I could ever disappoint him in bed.

No, if it’s awkward and weird, we’ll do it until it’s not.

I’m too keyed up to sew, so I put my stuff away and head downstairs to switch my laundry. Timothy’s load in the dryer is done, so I fold it and stick it back in a basket.

Am I really doing this?

Yes. I am. Tonight, I’m seducing my best friend.

There’s a soft, worn white button-up on the top of Timothy’s basket and I throw it on over my tank top. I’m swimming in it, my little gym shorts barely visible, but I want him to come home to me in his shirt. When my laundry’s tumbling away in the dryer, I take Timothy’s basket upstairs and wander into the kitchen to find a snack.

High on a shelf, I find three pretty glass jars of what looks like homemade candy. I bet his mom made big batches of these candies for Christmas and gave them to everyone. Timothy hasn’t touched them. Behind a jar filled with hard red candies, I spot a Tupperware filled with dinosaur gummies. That’s what I want. Fruity, sugary goodness.

Timothy has always stayed away from edibles while working and he was always working. Nic would keep them downstairs if they were his.

They must just be gummies.

They taste fine, and when I feel fine an hour after eating a few, I eat the rest. And dance around the house a little because I have the energy to burn.

It takes another hour, but it hits me when I can’t stop touching the turquoise throw pillow. The dinosaur gummies were definitely edibles.

I giggle, and still clutching the pillow, I reach for my phone.

Mina: Hypothetically speaking, if I were to eat some gummy dinosaurs from your pantry, do I need to order a pizza or call a doctor?

My phone rings.

“How many did you eat?” he asks. I can hear the concern under the calm in his voice and it freaks me out.

“This isn’t my first rodeo, Timothy,” I say, trying to sound unruffled. I micro-dosed during my periods, back when I had them. It helped a little, sometimes.

“They’re Mom’s. I’ll give her a call and find out how strong they are.”

Celia Foley, America’s chef, making edibles. “I’m all right.”

“I know. I’ll call you back.”

Time ticks by as I melt into the white leather sofa. I love this sofa. It’s so smooth. The leather is cool under my hands and I don’t even mind if the sofa absorbs me and I become sofa-people.

Timothy calls back. “They’re low-ish dose. How many did you eat?”

“Eight-ish. Maybe ten. Like two hours ago? Anyway, I’m good. I’m in love with your sofa. It was definitely all of them, by the way, and the dinosaurs were adorable. Did your mom make them?”

There’s a moment of silence. “I’m on my way, so…stay on the sofa.”

“OOOH! Bring tacos. No…ribs. Oh! Onion rings. On second thought, I want guac and chips. I wish your mom was here, I bet she makes the best snacks. But maybe she’d be pissed I ate all her edibles. Can you bring some tacos?”

He laughs. “Sure, baby. See you soon.”

He ends the call before I figure out how to make my thumb do it. I toss my phone onto the cushion next to me and lean back.

Huh. The picture on the wall is a TV but for a long minute, I think I’m hallucinating it. I hadn’t noticed it before. There’s a bigger screen downstairs but we haven’t been watching movies because he gets headaches. And he’s still sad about his retirement.

My phone chimes.

Celia: Sorry about my unlabeled edibles! How are you feeling?

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