Page 223 of You've Got Hate Mail
“He’s not a stripper?” Pip says.
Fucking hell.
Even she’s keeping up with me.
Did I get slow?
“What the hell’s going on?” I say to the deputy.
Recognize him from town.
“Doing a wellness check,” he says.
His eyes slide to the devil-in-law, then back to me, and my next breath is easier.
This dude knows me.
He knows I’m a good parent.
He knows Lav’s safe here.
Safe and loved.
“Everything’s well,” Cricket says. “Leave.”
He glances at Pip. “Ma’am? All okay?”
“Mammals? Where?”
“Did you, ah, offer her clothes?” he says to Cricket.
“She has clothes,” Cricket replies.
“Just hate wearing them, but my hoo-ha’s always covered,” Pip agrees. She’s more covered than she usually is, but it’s understandable that an outside observer might have concerns. She winks at the deputy. “And I heard you the first time. All’s great here. I had avocado toast and orange juice for breakfast. Always wear sunscreen when I go outside. If I’d known you were coming, I would’ve put on my pasties.”
“How is that appropriate for a young woman to grow up with?” my mother-in-law says to the deputy.
“Ma’am, private nudity isn’t against the law,” the deputy says.
“This isn’t private! There are dozens of people here!”
“It’s private land. Get out,” I growl.
“Harassment’s against the law, though, isn’t it?” Cricket says.
“Yes, ma’am,” the deputy says.
“Like continuously accusing a man of being a bad parent simply because he’s making choices that he believes best for his child, who’s loved and well cared for?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” my mother-in-law says to Cricket.
Cricket glances at me, eyes worried, biting her lip, and then she looks back at my devil-in-law, and she does the last thing I expect, even though I should’ve.
“You’re right,” she says quietly. “I don’t know what it’s like to lose a daughter. I don’t know what it’s like to not be able to see my granddaughter as often as I want. I don’t know what else you’ve been through in life. But I do know thatthis isn’t the way. This isn’t the way.”
“Shut the hell up, you whore,” my devil-in-law spits.
“Donotcall her names,” I growl, Cricket’s grip on my arm the only thing keeping me from doing to my mother-in-law what I did to the fuckers who took her picture at lunch the other day.
