Page 13 of Ellie Hayes and the Himbos
Eyes watering from the lingering smoke, I gesture toward Alistair, still on the chair. He’s replaced his towel with a pair of black boxer briefs with an inseam bordering on negligible. I’m going to be able to draw this guy from memory before noon.
I point to the hateful disk still screaming above him. “Don’t bother with the buttons. See if you can get the battery out.”
He gets to work, and I look to the others. “Open every window you can. The doors, too. Let’s get some air in here.”
Diego gives me a thumbs-up, and Grant nods emphatically, like he’s grateful for the direction. They leave the kitchen while I put the fire extinguisher back under the sink, righting the soap I knocked over, and close the cabinet. The smoke detector cuts off mid-beep, but my ears are ringing. I brace myself against the sink, hands gripping the porcelain rim as I take in long, slow, vomit-abating breaths.
When I’m confident enough that I’ll be retaining whatever’s left in my stomach, I face the kitchen again. The smoke has cleared some, and there are scorch marks across the stovetop. “How long had that been cooking?” I ask.
“Dunno.” Alistair’s still on the chair, holding the smoke detector in one hand and the nine-volt battery he removed from it in the other. Frowning, he raises the battery to eye level, then, after a moment’s consideration, sticks the business end to his tongue.
He lets out a little “Yip!” at the resulting shock, then chuckles, his smile dazzling. He extends the battery my way.“Feisty.”
I decide that a response isn’t necessary and cast my watery eye over the room. The counter is a clutter of dirty dishes, last night’s empties, and dark plastic tubs covered in aggressive fonts declaring tens of grams of protein per serving. The only solid foods I see are a speckled bunch of bananas well past their prime, whatever bacon might be left in the package, which is precariously close to the stovetop, and some protein bars. I pick one up.Tastes just like birthday cake!Wouldn’t bet on it.
Grant reenters the kitchen, still brandishing the broom, Diego behind him. “Ellie, I’m so sorry about that! We were trying to get a head start on the breakfast tacos you said you’d make, and we decided to get our workout in, but I guess that was too long. Or we had the pan too hot?”
I toss the bar back onto the counter. I said I’d make breakfast tacos? That… tracks.
“You wrote out a list of stuff we’d need to pick up, but I was going to get what we didn’t already have after we worked out. You made a couple of lists, actually.” He reaches into the pocket of his shorts, fishing around until he finds a folded slip of paper, and hands it to me.
It’s a Michael’s receipt that I still need to expense, but written on the back in a vibrant teal brush-tip marker is a list in my distinctive handwriting. The heading readsTaco Fixins, followed by the groceries Grant mentioned, but it’s the list farther down the receipt that catches my eye.To-dos in the face of suddenly single status. Lord. Even three sheets to the wind, I just can’t help my neurotic self.
Division of property, it begins.Find a place to put said property—go through with the Dawghouse? Recoup my half of deposit/first and lastfrom apt with Cole. Hate him. Many expenses ahead. Deductible, etc. Part-time job? This color is too whimsical for this task.
“I love your handwriting.” Diego taps the paper. “YourAlooks like a star!”
“Thank you.” I frown at the teal-tinted rambling. “Did I go over this with you guys,” I ask, wondering how thoroughly I’d detailed my plight, “or was I just scribbling like a weirdo?”
“Mostly like a weirdo,” says Alistair, who seems content to remain standing on a chair in the middle of the kitchen.
“We, um, have an idea, for the part-time job, if that’s cool?” says Grant, managing to break the offer up into multiple questions. “Because Ian’s looking for someone to work the front desk at his gym. Like, help members check in, handle the social posts, do some cleaning—”
“Was it you who cleaned that bathroom?” Diego interrupts, the question bursting from him with the same intensity with which a detective would reveal the name of the murderer in a whodunnit. I nod, and he, once again, beams. “I could tell that someone had made it fresh. It was nice to greet my face this morning without having to move around a giant penis.”
Grant points to Diego as though his contribution proved a point. “So, you’re obviously qualified for the gym job. And, um…” He swallows, eyes darting from Diego up to Alistair. “We might have a solution for another item on there.”
“You have some thoughts on the blue I used?” I ask, glancing back at my list.
“Way too whimsical for a list with ‘deductible’ on it,” says Alistair. Before I can worry about how much he might have read into that, he adds, “We want you to move in.”
I huff a laugh, but Alistair doesn’t respond to his own punchline. “You—” I look from him to the other guys. “Seriously?”
The guys glance back and forth at one another. Grant resumes the role of spokesman. “Yes?”
“You do remember that I’m way,wayolder than y’all, right?”
Grant shrugs it off. “So’s my brother. That was never a big deal.”
“And you’re way more fun than Ian,” Diego adds. “No offense, Grant.”
“Nah. Ian’s boring as hell.”
I tap my chest. “Iam boring as hell. Last night was an outlier.”
“Which makes it even cooler that you owned us in flip cup!” Grant persists. “You’re funny and fancy and smart, and—” He uses the broom to indicate the scorched stovetop. That’s absolutely coming out of their deposit. “You know how to avoid a grease fire!”
“True,” I say, not quite believing that I’m actually entertaining this. But other than the massive gap in ages, interests, and standards of cleanliness, why not? Aside from what might, I realize, be a minor case of alcohol poisoning, I had a damn blast last night. So, provided there are no further flirtations with death by booze, why can’t I simply postpone reality for a little longer?
