Page 61 of I Hate You More

“What I don’t understand is how she could walk after they were done,” another woman said. She had a cup of tea at her elbow and a half-eaten slice of banana bread in front of her. “They had sex for forty-four pages. I counted.”

“If you factor in a minute per page, it sounds possible.”

“I think it’s closer to five minutes per page. Look at the beginning of the sixth chapter. It’d take twice that long just to get in position. That poor girl must have a third leg to make it work.” The speaker, Lorraine Dewan, was the owner of the Maltese that Harry had once thrown in the pool. “We’ll start reading aloud, dear, and you can act out the parts. You look flexible. Who has a timer?”

Ruby held up her hands and started backing away toward the kitchen as the women fished out their cell phones and fought over who would be the timekeeper. She was happy to participate in their conversations and eat their baked goods, but she drew the line at re-creating sex acts in a living room covered with hand-crocheted doilies. She’d once attended a wake here, for crying out loud.

“Don’t be such a prude, Ruby. We promise not to record it.”

“It’ll be good for you, dear. You might learn a thing or two.”

“Now look what you’ve done. You scared her off.” In a louder voice, Mrs. Orson added, “Eat some of the bread, Ruby, and come back in thirty minutes. There’s banana or pumpkin. We’ll see how you feel about it then.”

It had been Ruby’s intention to generously butter and eat the largest slice of banana bread that sat on the veiny granite countertop, but at Mrs. Orson’s words, she crumbled off one corner and smelled it. The skunky scent that assailed her nostrils had her chuckling—and also straying far from the plate. It wasn’t that she was morally opposed to edibles, since they lived in Washington state and it was perfectly legal, but shewasmorally opposed to getting high while she was in her scrubs—and while Harry was still somewhere on the premises. It would be just like him to change her time card to make it look like she was still on the clock.

Since she wasn’t brave enough to venture into the living room until the pot had mellowed the women out, she began tackling the pile of dishes in the kitchen instead. Mrs. Orson came in about halfway through, her hip against the kitchen island as she watched Ruby work.

“Oh, good. I was hoping someone would get to those. Aren’t you a love?”

“No. I’m avoiding the living room until you guys are done reenacting sex scenes.”

“If that’s the case, then you might as well organize the pantry. Unless Lorraine throws her hip out again, it’s going to be a while.”

A burst of laughter from the other room confirmed Mrs. Orson’s prediction. That didn’t sound at all like women who were dislodging joints; it sounded like women who were smoking them.

Ruby paused in the act of rinsing out a large mixing bowl. “How much THC did you guys put in that banana bread, anyway?”

“Enough. Darla got her prescription filled this morning. It’s the only thing that makes her cooking palatable.”

Ruby doubted any amount of marijuana could do that, but there was no denying that the women were enjoying themselves. As well they should. They’d lived long lives, full lives,activelives. They were rich with experiences and memories—and all the ups and downs that accompanied them. Even being in the next room washing their dishes was giving her strength.

In fact, she was halfway tempted to pull out the college application she’d printed out in Harry’s office when he was taking one of his many smoke breaks earlier today. North Seattle College wasn’t the most prestigious educational institution, and their two-year nursing program was only a stepping-stone toward a more formal degree, but Ruby needed to talk tosomeoneabout it. Her mom wasn’t ready to understand what a big deal this was for her, and Eva was out for obvious reasons.

And the one person she wanted to tell most—Spencer—was a definite no-go.

“Where is Wheezy, by the way?” Ruby asked, mostly by way of changing the subject. She made a show of looking around the kitchen. “Did he go into hiding when I came in? Typical. He’s starting to loathe the very sight of me.”

“He’s taking a nap,” Mrs. Orson replied. “Starvation makes him sleepy.”

It was on the tip of Ruby’s tongue to point out that beauty was pain and that no one accomplished anything in life without some good, old-fashioned suffering, but her mother’s aphorisms felt bitter on her tongue. Okay, so Wheezy wasn’t what everyone else would consider an ideal example of a golden retriever, but why did that matter? He was easygoing and good with kids. He brought Mrs. Orson happiness. He went along with whatever adventure Ruby dragged him into and never once showed signs of aggression about it.

In other words, being a show dog wasn’t everything. If anyone was qualified to make that judgment, it was Ruby.

She was prevented from saying any of this by a voice calling from the next room. “Rosemary, bring in the pumpkin bread! We’re ready for another round.”

“Oh, no you don’t,” Ruby warned Mrs. Orson. “I think you should let the first round settle in first.”

She searched for the bread in question so she could hide it, but other than a bowl of oranges and two half-empty bottles of wine, there was nothing on the kitchen counter.

“Uh-oh. Did you guys already eat it and forget? You did that last time, and we couldn’t find Sally for three hours. Remember? She walked all the way down to the taco stand on the corner and back—and with her knee.”

“I could have sworn it was just here.” Mrs. Orson searched in the silverware drawer and on top of the fridge. “You don’t suppose Harry snuck in here and stole it, do you?”

“I wouldn’t put it past him to try,” Ruby said. As she was of a more practical and less high frame of mind, she also looked inside the refrigerator and the bread box. There was no sign of the missing dessert in either.

A sudden fear seized her, taking hold like a hand over her throat. “Mrs. Orson, has Wheezy been in this kitchen?”

“Of course he’s been in the kitchen. He practically haunts the place. Every crumb is the potential for salvation.”