Chapter 16
Don’t let my gorgeous face fool you,” Marc said,
dabbing Julius out of his eyebrows. “I do occasionally have to
resort to detective work. Even research. And that stuff—well, it
made all the local papers at the time. The guy was the pride of
Minnesota, the state’s biggest philanthropist, proudly raised on a
farm (so the yokels liked him, too), and had better press than
Tiger Woods, pre-affairs.”
“Yes,” I managed
through gritted teeth. I hated even hearing the fuck-o’s name,
never mind about his disguise as a dad who wasn’t a perverted
narcissistic egomaniac. “He got good press in life.”
“Right up ‘til his
daughter made headlines winning her emancipated status. And his
fatal car crash with his wife the same day.”
I looked longingly
into my empty Julius cup. Another four or five of these would go
down great. Also? I felt remorseful and stupid, which I hate. I
should have known Marc would have figured out all that stuff,
probably about ten minutes after he met Jessica the first
time.
He jabbed his finger
in my general direction. “You should have known I’d figure that
stuff out.”
“I was thinking that
very thing.”
“I know why
you hate November—and there was no need
to knock over the entire Fine Cooking display at the Barnes and
Noble.”
“I couldn’t take it.
Sixty pictures of giant bronzed roasted turkeys. It—it loomed,
practically.”
“Still. If you hadn’t
mojo’d the manager, we’d be sitting in the security office right
now. Anyway, I know you’re anti-Thanksgiving and
anti-family—”
“I am not
anti-family!” I brought the flat of my hand down on the table, then
winced when I heard the sharp crack. Stupid, cheap plastic tables.
“I’m pro-family. I’m all for families. But our situation is not a
family. It’s a comic book. We’ve got the Antichrist, my
eighty-year-old dead husband, my dead stepmother who gets off on
popping into my room when I’m exploring the wonderful world of
chocolate syrup with Sinclair—”
“Aw, God.” Marc
rubbed his eyes. “Do you know how long it’s been since I got
laid?”
“—my dead father who
isn’t haunting me for some
reason—”
“Wait. Are you
complaining that he’s dead or that he’s not one of the ghosts
giving you to-do lists?”
“—my orphaned best
friend who recently quit having cancer, my half-brother-slash-son
who is immune to any and all paranormal weirdness—”
“Not the worst
superpower to have.”
“—a gay ER doc
equally obsessed with sex, texting, and Beyoncé—”
“Which makes me
completely normal, except with really good taste.”
“—and a
roommate-slash-secretary-slash-bodyguard who knows my husband
better than I ever will—”
“Don’t forget how
awesomely hot she is. I mean, you’re cute, Betsy, but Tina ...”
Marc whistled and glanced at the ceiling. “D’you think she’d cut
her hair and give it to me?”
I flinched but kept
on: “That’s my family, okay? Norman Rockwell never painted this.
Because if he did? Everyone would run screaming from the room. Sort
of like I’m thinking about doing right now.”
“Boo-hoo. You’re in
perfect health—”
“I’m dead, Dr.
Doofus!”
“And
rich—”
“But it’s not my
money.”
“Community-property
state, babe. And you’re married to a gorgeous guy who adores you,
and you have all kinds of cool Scooby-esque
adventures—”
“Which occasionally
end with a friend catching bullets with her frontal
lobe.”
“I’m just sayin’,” he
continued, unmoved by my rising hysteria. “Better find another
shoulder to cry on, honey.”
“I will.” I jumped
up. Time to get gone before I decided to see how often Marc would
bounce if I threw him over the railing and into the amusement park.
“I will do exactly that.”
“See ya,” he replied,
admirably unconcerned.
I snatched his
unopened can of Coke, taking bitchy pleasure in his flinch—he
probably hadn’t seen me move. “And I’m
taking this. Yeah! Reap the whirlwind.”
I stomped toward the
escalators, not acknowledging his, “Don’t forget, you said you’d
clean Giselle’s litter box tonight!”
As far as parting
shots went, it was a pretty good one.