Page 82 of A Country Kind Of Love
“Someone online did the same thing. They said their tarantula likes it, and he also learned to play with pingpong balls.”
“Hmm.”
Peyton heads to the bathroom to gather her toothbrush, one pump of the toothpaste tube, and she’s back in the kitchen to watch the entertainment unfold. She loves to watch Jesse attempt to play with Bugsy. She’s observed him being bitten twice since she moved in, and both times made her pee a little. Peyton prefers to respect Bugsy’s privacy. The internet clearly states you should not play with a tarantula, or try to pet one, and she trusts Google more than she trusts Jesse. His obsession with a hairy creature big enough to transport Peyton on its back like a float at a Labour Day parade is unnerving.
Jesse walks over to the enclosure and opens the hatch. Peyton shudders.
“You’re so scared of him, but he’s probably more scared of you.”
“I doubt that,” Peyton mumbles.
She blames the filmEight Legged Freaks, and her father’s terrible parenting for allowing her to watch it at the tender age of eight. It scarred her for life.
“Have you heard from Cleo?”Jesse asks.
She shakes her head. Her heart drops whenever she hears her name.
“There’s no easy way to say this, but I heard she might be seeing someone,” Jesse claims.
“Oh.” Toothpaste drips down Peyton’s chin.
“I’m sorry.”
“Who?” she mutters through a mouth full of whiteminty foam.
“I don’t remember her name. She’s brunette, short, and has a distinctive tattoo on the right side of her neck.”
The girl fromthe winery.
“Oh.”
Jesse looks back sympathetically.
Peyton runs back to the bathroom to rinse her mouth before the remainder of the toothpaste ends up on the hardwood floor. She shuts the door. The latch clicks, and the floodgates open. She splashes her face; the cold water wakes her, but it doesn’t shock the tears into stopping. The mirror isn’t kind to her this morning. Her eyes are drawn. She tried to sleep last night, but the moment her head hit the pillow thoughts of Cleo swarmed her mind. The slow poignant nights have become a great source of inspiration for some heartbreak music, but there’s only so many songs she can write before that form of therapy becomes counterproductive.
Pull yourself together.
She fixes her hair, a little pull here and there, a glide of the brush and it looks somewhat better. She has a new undereye cream that’s supposed to be fantastic for boosting hydration. The bottle reads,for a fresh and renewed look. Then in microscopic print,must use for at least six weeks. Why is nothing instant? She can’t have instantly refreshed eyes, just like she can’t have instant relief from the heartache she feels.
The cream soothes her reddened skin, but she still looks like she’s stepped off a long-haul flight, or she’s on day five of the flu. Hopefully Jesse won’t notice. Peyton opens the door, and he’s there waiting in silence. Thankfully there is no tarantulain his hand.
“Come here.” He stretches out his orangutan-like wingspan. She doesn’t resist.
“I’m sorry you’re upset,” he says softly. He’s warm, no surprise, the whole apartment is warm, but he radiates heat, a bit like a werewolf. Not that she’s ever met a werewolf, but she has watchedTwilight, and that’s all the factual evidence she needs.
“You’d make a good blanket.”
“Interesting.” Jesse laughs.
“Like one of those good expensive heated ones with the remote control, not a boring regular one.”
“Have you had some drugs whilst you were in the bathroom?” He chuckles and his whole body shakes against hers.
“Shut up.”
“Do you want to talk about it?” His Adams apple vibrates against the top of her head; his grip doesn’t loosen.
“No.”
