Chapter 3

I was going to kill Hugo, I decided that afternoon.

How’s that for an inability to make decisions?

I was going to kill him. I was going to murder him. I was going to…kill him.

Ease up on the judgment, please. My internal thesaurus doesn’t work when I’m stressed.

I spent the afternoon telling anyone who would listen about my concrete, set-in-stone, uh, concrete plans. I was going to kill Hugo. And when I wasn’t telling them about killing Hugo, I told them how wrong he was.

“So, I worry about details,” I told Fox. “So, I care about the little things.”

“Not your clothes,” Fox said.

“I’m talking about—”

“Not your physical health. Not your conditioning. Not décor. Not—”

“I’m talking about my writing!”

“Next time, yell in this ear,” Fox said. “To even out the deafness.”

Millie was a much better listener.

“I don’t have a fear of being vulnerable.”

“Oh no, definitely not.”

“I’m willing to make myself vulnerable.”

She nodded enthusiastically.

“I’d love to have a strong emotional bond with a partner.”

“Like Bobby.”

That threw me for a second. “I guess so. I mean, Deputy Bobby and West are a great couple—”

“No, no, no. You and Bobby. Like, when you had that fight with your mom, you told him all about it, and he listened and nodded and gave you good advice. Or when you got that story back, and you were so upset that you told Indira you were only going to eat soup, even though you hate soup—”

“It’s a drink! It’s not a meal!”

“—and Bobby came, and five minutes later you were laughing, and I swear you smiled for a week.”

“Well, that’s not—”

“And that time you got homesick, and Bobby made you go on a run with him, and you came back, like, super sweaty, and Fox thought you were having a heart attack—”

“It was his eyes,” Fox called from the next room. “They were bulgy.”

“My eyes were fine!” I snapped.

“—and after the run you told Bobby all about how you were feeling, and he did such a good job listening, and then you were better.” Millie straightened up with a fresh burst of perkiness. “You’re very good at emotional intimacy!”

“I have to talk to someone else,” I said.

Indira was baking in the kitchen (living up to her promise of a tres leches cake, although I think it was more out of pity than because I’d actually earned it).

“And if I’m so bad at making decisions, why did I pack up my whole life and move out here, huh? What about that?”

“I know, dear,” Indira said. “Do you want some more coffee?”

“I don’t know.”

She went back to measuring.

“It’s a little late,” I said.

She made a noise that I guessed was supposed to mean she’d heard me.

“But also, I’m supposed to go out with Cole, so maybe I do need a pick-me-up.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Maybe with a little cream and sugar.”

“In the fridge, dear.”

“But Fox did say something about my figure. Should I call it my figure? Does that have a misogynistic connotation?”

All that earned me was a “Uh-huh.”

“How much coffee are you supposed to drink in one day? Can you drink too much coffee? Can it make you sick?”

Indira must not have heard me because she looked intent on her mixing.

“Maybe tea,” I said. “Or is tea worse for you?”

“Dashiell?”

“Yes?”

“Please get out of my kitchen.”

Keme was playing video games in the billiards room. Today, it was one of the Resident Evil games, which were way, way, way too scary (for me, not for Keme).

After explaining everything to Keme—at length—I said, “And he’s not even being consistent.” I laughed. “That’s what’s so funny about this whole thing.” I laughed again. “He’s contradicting himself, right?”

Keme was trying to kill—well, I wasn’t sure what it was. Either a Depression-era public works employee who was building a trail, or, uh, a zombie (also building a trail). Maybe I’d forgotten what these games were about.

“Because I’m not conflict avoidant.”

Keme switched to a different gun. He seemed to be squeezing the buttons on the controller extra hard.

“I didn’t avoid conflict when I told him I wanted to break up, did I?”

The public works zombie must have gotten the better of Keme because the screen went dark, and Keme let out a frustrated noise.

“I initiated the conflict,” I said. “I’m pro-conflict. Well, not pro-conflict, God, I hope not. Am I pro-conflict?”

Keme held up a finger.

Maybe this was it. Maybe he was going to say something. Maybe the first words I ever heard from him were going to be how much he cared about me, and how I was a great guy, and I was so much better off without Hugo, and I’d totally made the right decision to break up with him.

Then Keme fished out a pair of earbuds, put them in his ears (firmly, I noticed), and resumed gameplay.

I slunk upstairs and took a long, prune-ifying bath.

A knock at the door interrupted my plan to slowly dissolve into human soup.

“It’s almost time for your date!” Millie squealed. “Hurry up! We need to get ready!”

“I’m not going.” And then, because I felt like I was on to something, “I’m going to die in the bath and dissolve into human soup.”

“You hate soup,” Millie reminded me.

“Where are your girdles?” Fox asked. “I can’t find any.”

“I don’t have any girdles.”

“Really? Then why does your stomach sometimes look—”

Another, louder rap covered up the rest of that unfortunate sentence. “Dashiell,” Indira said, “get out of the bath.”

“I can’t. My arms already dissolved.”

“I’ll send Keme in.”

“To drown me?”

Keme’s exasperated huff was audible even through the door.

“If you’re not out of there in the next minute,” Indira said, “the kitchen is going gluten free.”

For a moment, I froze. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“I have so many cookbooks, Dashiell. And I love a challenge.”

The bathwater was getting cold. And I did hate soup.

Wrapped in a towel, I stood near the door and said, “All of you weirdos get out of my room!”

“We picked out your clothes,” Millie said.

Fox said, “And your belt.”

“Fox,” Indira said.

“It’s a precaution!”

“Why do I have to live like this?” I asked. “Why can’t I have the kind of friends who convince me to do drugs and get tattoos and spend all my allowance on penny whistles?”

“Do you know what he reminds me of? What’s that movie where a crotchety old lady body-swaps with a young man in the prime of his life?”

“All right,” Indira said. “That’s it. Everybody out.”

The sounds of movement came, and then the door closed.

I let myself into the bedroom, half-braced for a Millie-related surprise. There wasn’t a mean bone in Millie’s body, but her...exuberance led to a lot of enthusiastic misunderstandings. Fortunately, I was alone, and I padded over to my bed to examine the clothes they’d laid out for me: a quilted jacket, lightweight enough that it’d be perfect once the sun went down; a chambray button-up; and black jeans. Apparently, I was authorized to choose my own underwear.

As I dressed, the reality of my situation began to settle in. Until now, the confrontation with Hugo had occupied my thoughts. But the fact was, I was going to dinner. With a guy. On what was, by any legal standard, a date. With Mr. Cole Meadows, who had dimples and looked like he swam or played rugby or lifted lots of heavy things (at least, when he wasn’t high). And I was supposed to be funny. And charming. And smart.

And I was trying to put both legs through the same leg-hole.

“Hurry up,” Fox said.

“I thought you left!”

“We did leave,” Millie said, in the tone of someone who clearly thought they were being helpful. “Now we’re waiting in the hall.”

“Quit stalling,” Fox said.

“I’m not stalling!” But I did have both legs in the same leg-hole. “I changed my mind. I’m not going.”

“Indira has a key, remember?”

“I’m not scared of Indira.”

That was a lie.

“You don’t have to be scared of me,” Indira said. “I’ll send in Keme.”

I finally got my legs in the right leg-holes, yanked the jeans up, and threw open the door. “I’m not scared of Keme either.”

Keme folded his arms. And then, to make his point, he rolled his eyes.

“Oh my God,” Millie said. “You look AMAZING!”

There’s this deep-sea phenomenon called sonic tunnels—bands of water with exactly the right qualities to carry the sounds of undersea volcanoes across immense distances. I only mention it in case you need a point of comparison.

I was still working a finger in my ear as Indira said, “You look handsome, dear. Have a wonderful time on your date.”

“Or have a terrible time,” Fox said, “because I’m having a hard time picturing millennial-stoner bro-trust fund baby as your type.”

“Fox,” Indira said.

“What? I’m questioning his judgment. Out loud.”

I sighed and looked at Keme. Apparently, he’d gotten over his anger or frustration or whatever it was because he offered a small smile and then pretended to blow his brains out.

“Yes,” I said, “exactly. Finally, someone who gets it.”