Page 61 of Best Served Cold

Over my dead body. Not my thing.

No, fun isn’t your thing.

But your brother’s girl is.

I start to set my phone down, then change my mind and shoot off a text to Sophie. She’s my fake girlfriend, after all. Got to get used to pretending, and girlfriends expect check-ins. Or so I’veheard from Travis, who’s in the off phase of an epic on-and-off relationship that’s lasted for years and is the reason Bixby says he’s never going to date anyone for longer than three weeks.

Goodnight, Sophie. Wish on a star for me, would you?

That’s awfully presumptuous.

I’m laughing, tapping my fingers against the side of the phone in a tic I can’t kick, when her next message comes through.

Please use that cream Dottie gave you.

I will.

Goodnight, Rob. Thank you for everything.

Wait, am I allowed to say that?

Sorrys, I have no use for. Thank-yous, I will hoard.

But I’ll still spare one for you. Thank you for making me special drinks tonight. That was thoughtful.

And here’s another: thank you for wanting to help Emil.

I’m smiling as I set my phone down. Humming as I spread that cream all over my face. It’s thick and herbal smelling.

In the morning, I wake up from a dream about Sophie with a rock-hard dick.

It’s not her, I tell myself. It’s morning wood. No big deal.

I go to the bathroom to take a piss, but I’m distracted by the image in the mirror.

My face isblue. Not blue as in slightly pale with a blue undertone, but actually blue. Like a ripe blueberry. My pillowcase is too.

I fumble for the little container Dottie gave me, but the only label is a whimsical line drawing of a flower. That’s not going to help me figure out how to make my face a normal color.

I bolt back into my bedroom and go for my phone, pulling up Dottie Hendrickson’s number.

It rings three times and then goes to voicemail.

I try her again.

Same result.

Well, shit.

If I believed in karmic punishment, I’d have to wonder if this was a direct result of me breaking my vow to the truth last night.

I don’t, but I can’t escape the feeling that it’s a kind of natural consequence.

I scrub my face with hot water and soap, but the color only fades a little. I still look unnatural, to put it mildly, and it hurts to touch my nose. Not good. I need to call Nelly, but I’m blue and have a bruised face. It seems like those two problems may outweigh my newly acquired fake girlfriend on heris Rob worthy?scale.

I check my phone. There’s a text from my dad:

Call me. We need to talk.

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