Page 4 of Don't Cross Mo Ellery

Me:Or why don’t I just take some time off? Let things cool down before I come back?

This time, she responds immediately.

Kendra:Are youkiddingme? You are fired.Sofired.So permanently fired.There do not exist enough words for me to describe how fired you are. You’re lucky Midwest Tool Warehouse is run by old guys who are too embarrassed to admit they saw naked people they weren’t married to.

Me:So it’s a no

Kendra:It is a no

By the time Chris comes back, I’ve flopped over and mushed my face on the tile. This is why you keep your bathroom floor clean. For these moments.

“I’m still fired,” I mumble.

“Well, yeah,” says Chris, holding out the paper lunch bag. “That makes sense. But if there’s one thing I know about you, Mo, you’re strong. When bad things happen, you dust yourself off—”

A sudden thought occurs to me, and I sit up. “We’ve never had sex outside the bedroom, right?”

“Not even once.” Chris shakes his head. “And you must be really disappointed about that. Which I cantotallyunderstand. I mean, that’s not the life you want, is it? Like, I’m so boring and you’re so adventurous—”

“Am I?” That distracts me for a second. It’s not howIwould describe myself.

“Of course you are!”

I guess I am now? I snap my fingers. Bingo. “Chris, what if I have one of those tumors that makes you do things that are out of character? Kendra couldn’t fire me then, right? That’s illegal.”

Chris scrunches his face up, like he’s being very delicate about his answer. “I think you were just horny.”

“Well, I should probably get an MRI anyway, just to be sure. Plusone of those heart attack tests,” I say, standing up and immediately going weak-kneed as the realization hits. “Chris, I just gotfired. I won’t have insurance to pay for all this!”

“Mo.” He pulls me into a hug. “It’s going to be okay.”

“How can you be so sure?” I ask pathetically.

“Listen, I can’t always be here to make you feel better when you freak out about nothing.”

Okay, that is not fair.

Chris and I have an agreement. And the agreement is that I get to freak out about all my weird health fears whenever I want, and he gets to make me feel better. That is our deal.

He holds up the paper bag again. “This is my last lunch bag. Out of like a hundred. And I haven’t been using them for lunch.”

“I’m stressed out,” I say. “I’m about to turn thirty.”

“Next year!”

“I gotfired. And so on.”

“You had a nice birthday lunch, right?” he says.

“Other than the fact that you’re the only one who ate—heeeeeyo!”

I’m pretty impressed with myself for coming up with a joke mid–heart attack/tumor.

“Mo—”

The tone of his voice is clear: not the time for jokes, got it. This is supposed to be one of those heart-to-heart relationship moments.

“Seriously, you did great,” I say. “I’m not sure I needed a heart resilience lecture, but otherwise this was a terrific birthday lunch. And you take amazing care of me. I really appreciate all the lunch bags. Like my mom says—if you move in with a doctor, nothing that bad can happen to you.”