I can handle Zoey. “You have some explaining to do, mother fucker.” Or at least I think I can handle her. I go to answer her when Justine puts up her hand and says, “Zoey, it’s Justine.” “Justine? Oh I’m sorry. I thought this was Beck. You’re not a dickhead. How are you? Did you try that brownie recipe I emailed you?” Brownie recipe? They email? The fuck?
