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I’m so pissed at him that I’ve fantasized about sticking chocolate pudding in his business shoes—” “What?” she yells. “Why would you do that?” “He’d think it’s cat shit. Pickles gets diarrhea when she eats my houseplants.”
I told him anxiety is like whack-a-mole. Unpredictable, always waiting beneath the surface. Sometimes it’s a trigger that you can pinpoint and deal with, but even then, unexpectedly anxiety rears its head and you’re spinning, wishing you could locate that thing, for there to be one thing, that makes you this way so you can isolate it and smack the shit out of it, or…more accurately, fix it. Somehow.
So go home. Talk to Freya.” A book hits me in the solar plexus. “And read a damn romance novel,”
“That Birkenstock-wearing Twister sadist is cockblocking me?”
“Romance is about the centrality of loving relationships, and it reminds us that human connection is vital to existence, rather than glorifying egoism or violence or greed. So excuse my genre for not being perfect, but let’s back the fuck up from hypocritically critiquing books that have done a lot more for humanity than slashers and circle-jerk, five-hundred-page, nihilistic tomes.”
“So that right there,” Oliver says, “is exactly why we need today.” Viggo pins me with his sharp stare. “Somewhere along the way, you forgot the day you became Freya’s, you became ours, too.”
“Long and hard.” Oliver smirks. “And thick. Heh. That’s the perk of a romance novel, all right.” Ren coughs as his cheeks pink. Ryder snorts. “Wait, what?” I ask. “What are you talking about?” Ax sighs. “Book boners, dude.” “Book what?” A book? Could make me hard? What is this sorcery?
What a breakfast! Now I need a nap. Axel and Ren made it?” “Excuse me, I did. It’s not groveling if you outsource it.” “Mm. Grovel breakfast.”
