Total pages in book: 35
Estimated words: 33254 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 166(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33254 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 166(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
My mess? Ha. That was cute, and I almost told her that. But again, my wife was currently inhabited by some kind of satanic being who seemed to want nothing more than to see me suffer a slow, painful death, and I didn’t think getting into the details of blame was really worth relocating from my cushy penthouse to a new, significantly smaller place six feet underground.
“You’re right. It is my mess. So, I’ll go finish cleaning it up,” I said resolutely, working hard not to let my voice crack in fear like a kid at the onset of puberty.
Out of the kitchen on fast feet, I cleaned up the rest of the burrito mess and made sure our pig was doing okay. He was, for the time being, but I wasn’t entirely convinced my middle-of-the-night run to the bathroom wasn’t going to turn into a roaring good time, courtesy of Philmore the Pig’s Shit ’n Slide Adventure. But that was a problem for future Thatch, as present Thatch already had just about all the anxiety he could handle.
Once everything appeared the way it should and I noted that Cass was still at the counter, angrily chopping up pickles, I made a beeline for the hallway, strode into our bedroom, and hurried into the master bathroom.
As if I were being chased by a psychopath in a horror movie, my hands shook as I shut and locked the door and pulled my phone out of my pocket.
After a few taps to the screen, I held my cell to my ear as it rang.
“What’s up, T?” Kline greeted, but I didn’t have time for greetings. I had to make sure at least one person in my group of friends knew that the first forty-eight hours were the most crucial for finding a body.
“Where’s Georgia?”
“Sitting right next to me. Why?”
“I need to talk to her. It’s an emergency.”
“What?” he questioned. “Are you okay?”
“Just put Georgia on the line, K. I don’t have time for small talk. If you want someone to ask you about your hobbies, go to a round of speed dating.”
He sighed but, thankfully, did as instructed.
“Thatch?” Georgia’s voice filled my ears.
Oh, thank fuck.
“I think Cassie might murder me tonight.”
“What?” She laughed, and I scowled. This wasn’t the time to be joking around.
“Georgia, I’m serious. Cass got all upset that Kelsey misspelled her word and got knocked out of the competition, and then, fucking Chipotle fucked me over real good and put cheese on my wife’s goddamn burrito,” I pushed out on a fast-paced ramble. “And now, Cass threw our dinner all over the fucking living room, doesn’t think I love her, and is currently in the kitchen, chopping up pickles and contemplating my murder.”
The line went silent for a brief moment, and then Georgia eventually responded, “I don’t understand anything you just said to me.”
“Jesus, Georgia girl, you’ve known this woman much longer than I have, and I expect that kind of experience to mean something.”
“I’ve never been fluent in Crazy, and I never will be. You married her. You figure it out.”
“Ugh, fine. But at least tell me this… What do you think the statistics are for women killing their husbands during their pregnancies? Just give me an idea of what I’m working with here. Twenty? Fifty? Seventy-percent likelihood?”
“Thatch, Cassie isn’t going to murder you.”
“Georgia, you’re not here,” I retorted on a sigh. “You haven’t seen her eyes. This is more than the usual I’m so funny crazy eyes. This is like my wife is being possessed by a psychotic Shonda Rhimes, and any second, she’s going to decide that I’m the next character who needs to be killed off. But only, this isn’t a fucking TV show, Georgie. It’s my life. My actual life. I’m not even going to live to see the day my son is born. I’m going to—”
“Thatch!”
“What?”
“Take a breath,” Georgia said, her voice all soft and calm. The complete opposite of how I was feeling. “I can imagine that fluctuating pregnancy hormones in Cassie is one hell of a ride—”
“One hell of a ride?” I repeated, cutting her off completely. “Georgia, if hell had a Disney World, it’d be this.”
“Thatch, it’s going to be okay. But first, you need to relax. Seriously. Breathe.”
When I didn’t respond, she said it again.
“Just breathe. Deep breaths in through your nose and out through your mouth.”
Eventually, I listened and took a few big inhales of air into my tight lungs and let them out on lengthy exhales.
“Okay. That’s good. Great, even. How are you feeling?”
“Still scared.”
She laughed at that.
“It’s not funny, Georgia. I’m walking on eggshells over here just to avoid getting the shank. I’d rather be in Rikers Island. At least criminals have a certain code of honor.”
“I’m sorry. I’m not laughing at you. Just the…situation.”
“Which is zero fluffing help,” I remarked. “Any second now, when she’s done taking her anger out on the pickles, she’ll come looking for me.”