Page 102 of You've Got Hate Mail
Once I found my calling and dove into being a paramedic, everything clicked into place.
“Knock knock, lovebirds,” Pip calls as she enters through the door that leads upstairs.
Pip.
The door goingupthe stairs.
Where the hell—fuck me again.
I’m not in my room upstairs.
I’m in the apartment under my house.
Cricket’s room.
The cat clucks one more time.
Why the fuck is the cat clucking?
“Lavender,” I croak out.
“Aunt Pip, leave them alone,” Mabel says. “Heath, Lavender had a sleepover in the main house. She’s fine. You have a bunch of updates over text whenever you’re up to looking at a phone. Also, Lav and I cleaned up as much of the glitter upstairs as is humanly possible. She promises she’s never leaving the lids off of glitter again.”
“Who’s talking about my clitter getting a creaming?” Pip asks.
“Glitter cleaning, Aunt Pip. Cricket, you okay?”
“Can’t locate my pride, but that’s nothing new,” Cricket says from somewhere that’s not the bed.
I wince as I look around, wondering who decided on this god-awful blinding white paint and the white cabinets and the white appliances for this apartment.
It makes my soul hurt.
We’ve gone past body and brain pain and into soul pain.
“Are you hiding in the shower?” I rasp out.
“No, the chicken’s in the shower,” comes the answer from behind the half-closed bathroom door. “Only one occupant at a time. Why can I hear you so clearly? Oh, shit, is the door open?”
It clicks shut.
Pip’s grinning at me.
Fluffy’s scowling at me.
Mabel’s straight-faced.
“Why thefuckare you all in my house?” I ask in caveman grunts.
“You texted last night and said to let ourselves in if we hadn’t seen you by nine,” Mabel explains.
“Oh, I’ve seen him fine, but what does that have to do with letting ourselves in?” Pip says.
Mabel ignores her this time, still looking at me, her face placid like it’s normal for me to grump and cuss at her. “If you have five minutes, I need to talk to you about a project.”
She shoots a glance at the bathroom door of the one-room apartment. “And about the chicken.”
“The—fuuuuuuck.” I grip my head.
