Page 177 of You've Got Hate Mail

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She grins over her avocado toast. “Just checking that you remembered.”

“Morning,” Cricket says. “Everyone sleep well?”

I pass her a coffee cup like we haven’t seen each other already this morning. “Fantastic,” I say.

“I had a dream Fluffy wouldn’t stop licking me,” Lav says. “And then I woke up and my bed was wet.”

I blink at her. “What? When?”

She hasn’t wet the bed in months, but I know it can still happen sometimes.

“When Fluffy was trying to get to Cricket,” Lav says. “Don’t worry, Dad. I handled it.”

I make a mental note to check her sheets. “You need a quick shower this morning?”

“Showers are awful. Ladies take baths. Right, Cricket?”

And now I’m picturing Cricket in a bathtub.

Mine’s bigger than hers. I should invite her up.

I should also stop thinking about this before my daughter turns wrong and gets an eyeful of my tenting pants.

“Right,” Cricket says. “Plus, the fall risk is less.”

Lav wrinkles her nose. “I fell in the bath once. It was Fluffy’s fault.”

“A lot of things are Fluffy’s fault.”

“She’s a good cat, but she has her moments.”

Cricket smiles.

I smile.

Waffles.

I make killer waffles. The secret’s the topping.

Tomorrow’s Sunday. I can make her waffles.

My phone vibrates hard on the countertop.

Cricket’s vibrates softer. I can hear it, but not see it, so I assume it’s in the pocket of her pajama shorts.

We lock eyes.

If both of us are getting messages?—

We each grab our phones.

Read the message.

Then lock eyes again.

She’s clearly suppressing a squeal.

“Who arrives before eight in the morning?” I say. “That’s ridiculous.”

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