Which is a good thing, because right now my concentration is completely shot to shit. I’m sweating, and the skort, usually the pinnacle of comfort if not glamour, feels itchy and constricting. I have a number of friends, but I don’t run with a mommy posse or claim a BFF as some around Billsford do. When I’m faced with a crisis, I usually call Roger. This is partly reflex and partly laziness. Roger knows my backstory. He doesn’t require lengthy explanations for my behavior. He answers on the third ring. “Oh God,” he says, panting. “I was trying to recite the words to ‘Instant Karma’ while in a headstand. It made me dizzy.” “Hi, Roger,” I say. “Busy?” “No.” Of course he’s not. Roger is never actually busy. I explain briefly about Cousin Harry. I leave out the part about him wanting to fuck me on the table. I don’t see how sharing that detail will be helpful.
What do You think about Happily Ever After: A Novel?
