“Is that a line?” I ask, not falling immediately for it.
“No lines needed with you, Paisley,” he answers sincerely. “You can believe everything that comes out of my mouth.”
“Is that right? So tell me, am I the best you’ve ever had?”
Instantly he answers, “Without a doubt.”
“I better be,” I tease. “So, are you ready for tomorrow? You have some press conferences and an interview with—”
“Paisley, I don’t want to talk about work with you when we are not on the clock. This is our personal time, time to get to know each other.”
My heart melts. I turn on my side and prop the phone up on my nightstand before resting my head on my pillow, staring at the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen.
“What do you want to know?”
He smiles brightly and says, “Everything.”
**BELLINI**
“Pocket,” I scream from my chaise lounge that sits in my beheaded room.
Normally when surrounded by the mounted poly-resin taxidermy heads of Prince Harry, Mark Paul Gosselaar, Carnie Wilson, and Masaharu Morimoto, I feel at ease, but their cemented heads decorating the gold wallpaper in my relaxation room is doing nothing for my rising anxiety.
Once again, the world is against me. I have to fly to the cornfields today for Reese’s swim thing in the midst of an absolute crisis.
As the amazing human being I am, I spent the last two days interviewing lesbians under false pretenses. What they thought was an interview to work for Pothead Pizza as an artistic food stylist—aka, come up with stupid flavors—was actually me questioning everything from their personal life to their financial status so I can find the proper match for Mauve. Being so popular and sought after, I barely have time to pray with Pope Francis, and now with my new endeavor, Love for Lesbians, and my religious doggy wear fashion line, something is bound to slip.
And it did.
“Pocket,” I scream even louder, wondering where that Neanderthal is.
Mauve is on her way to the airport now, leaving me without an assistant. If I knew today was going to be the worst day of my life, I would have kept her around to dab a damp cloth over my forehead. Now, I’m left to dabbing one myself by using tongs because touching a wet washcloth is for people with large cuticles, not someone of my pristine perfection.
Breathing heavily and stopping in the doorway, Pocket stands before me—pants unzipped and her shirt hanging over her crotch just enough so I’m not forced to see what kind of hobo underwear she’s wearing.
“What the hell are you doing with your pants?” I ask her, utterly disgusted with the way she’s breathing out of her mouth, as if she’s Shrek after a one-mile run. It’s revolting just being around her right now.
“I was going to the bathroom when you called,” she answers, her breathing heavy.
“For heaven’s sake.” I sit up on the chaise. “Put yourself together, you merciless ape. What makes you think I want to see you with your pants practically around your ankles and your floppy clam eating up your crotch-stained cottons?” I shiver and avert my eyes from the uncivilized blockhead.
Mumbling apologies, she tends to her pants and then presents herself properly to me. “What’s wrong, Bellini?”
Dramatically, I rest my arm over my head and twist on the chaise lounge. “It’s all over,” I say, just as my dad walks in the room.
“Angel puss, is everything okay? You seem upset.”
Grabbing on to the back of the chaise lounge and sitting up, I take in my father. He’s wearing a white tank top that’s tucked into his Burberry pants while a plethora of gold chains hang from his neck. He’s so gaudy, but he has the right to be. He’s seen the gates of heaven during his near-death experience of being brutally humped by Orson, the demon pig. After such an act of the devil, my father can wear and do whatever he wants—since he got a second chance on life.
“Oh Daddy,” I whine, “everything is falling apart.”
Deep concern crosses his face. “Oh, angel puss, tell me everything.”
Flopping back down on my chaise, my gaze directed at the wall in front of me rather than the two people behind me, I hold up one single article of clothing in the air, as if I’m waving a white flag in surrender.
I hear both Pocket and my dad step forward to take a look at what I’m holding up in the air.
“What is that?” Pocket asks.
Tossing it to the side in exasperation, I say, “What is it? WHAT IS IT?” My voice rises as hysteria ensues me. “It’s a mockup of a clergy shirt made with dry clean only, Mulberry silk, intricate gold inlays, and a hot-pink clerical collar, that’s what it is.”
“It’s beautiful,” Pockets says. I’m starting to get really uncomfortable with how far she’s trying to stick her head up my ass these days. I’m pretty sure Mauve is starting to give her a territorial complex.
Flipping my legs so they hang off the side of the lounge, I stare up at her ordinary face. “Pocket, do you not see how the stitching is all wrong? How the sleeves of the shirt don’t have enough give in the shoulders? If I put this on Pope Francis, he’ll be walking around like some kind of fabulously dressed robot. That would be humiliating to him because if anything, he’s a man of God and deserves the respect of loose-fitting clothes to accommodate his doggy shoulders.”
“This is outrageous,” my dad says. Grabbing the poorly sewed clergy shirt, he tosses it on the ground and stomps on it with his Bellucci genuine alligator zipper boots, trying to turn it into dust. “I refuse to let my angel puss be subjected to such poorly constructed doggy clothing.”
“It’s so poorly constructed, Daddy,” I whine.
His face starts to turn red as his fists clench at his side. “Who did this? Who made this piece of clothing? I want names and addresses.”
“Ethel Morris,” I state, my fist raised to the air for justice. “She is the owner of Granny’s Garments. That old cotton-haired mistress conned me. She took my money and gave me a product that’s not even worth looking at. Not to mention, she wasted some of my Mulberry silk fabric. Oh Daddy, what am I to do?” My breathing is heavy, and I can feel a spell coming on. “I feel faint.”
“Pocket, tend to my daughter. I need to have a conversation with Ethel Morris. Don’t worry, angel puss, Daddy will take care of this. In the meantime, rely on Pope Francis for strength.”
“Where is he?” I ask, looking around. “Popey!”
Down the hall, the clang of Popey’s nametag against his collar rings out as he trots toward me, a look of sainthood on his face. Instantly I start to relax from his presence.
Jumping up on the chaise with me, he presses his paws against my heart and stares me in the eyes, his energy filtering from his little doggy paws straight into the center of my displeasure. We stare at each other for a couple good minutes and I know right then and there, he’s saying a prayer for me, it’s written all over his face.
When he pulls away, I say, “Amen” and then hug that little white furball to my chest.
“Such a blessing.” My dad smiles down at me and then takes off. Calling over his shoulder, he says, “I will seek revenge for you, angel puss. You have my word on it.”
The door slams behind him just as I turn to Pocket. “Please tell me I’m all packed for my journey today”
“You’re all set. Mauve made sure to have everything ready before she left. I double-checked because I don’t trust her.”
I nod. “Very good, Pocket.” Sighing, I squeeze Pope Francis and say, “Being a humanitarian is hard. I never thought Love for Lesbians was going to be so difficult.”
“But look at the good you’re doing. Just think, when you introduce Mauve to the new love of her life, she’s not going to be so ornery anymore and then in return, she’s going to be so much nicer to you.”
“It’s true, she’s lonely. You can tell by the way she doesn’t brush her hair.”
“Unkempt people really are the lonely ones of the world.”
Glancing over at Pocket, I take her in and say, “Imbecile, before you go around judging people, why don’t you make sure your fly is zipped. Honestly, I can’t take you anywhere.”
Looking down at her pants, she blushes and then zips up quickly. “I wondered why things felt so breezy. I just thought it was being in the presence of our Lord in Grace.”
My hand slams on the chaise. “How many times do I have to tell you?” I yell, utterly frustrated with her idiocies. “He is not Jesus, he is not God, and he is not the real Pope Francis. He’s a spiritual being with wisdom beyond his years.” Getting out of the chaise, I storm off to the kitchen to grab a blade of grass to gnaw on. Grass is a delightful mid-morning snack when my Tic Tacs wear off. “Listen up, Pocket. Normally, I would have Mauve make this phone call since she’s in charge of business, but given that we’re surprising her with a lesbian of her own, I need you to call our winner. It’s between Litter Box and Bread Box.”
To catch you up, I gave all the lady applicants nicknames so I could remember who they are. Litter Box impressed me with her ability to name off clothing designers without skipping a beat, and she had a good pizza topping idea of poppy seeds, lemon Girl Scout cookies, and raspberries. I would be bringing that one up to Daddy. Bread Box, she was quite the competitor for Litter Box. She was well versed in nail polish and owns a truck. Everyone likes a person with a truck, but her pizza topping idea was subpar at best. I know I’m supposed to be looking for someone of like interests with Mauve, but I’m pretty good at reading people, so I’m one hundred percent positive I know what I’m doing.
“Oh, Bread Box I think is the winner.” Pocket claps to herself.
“You are just a retched cow today,” I say in exasperation. “Do you not know how to read people at all? The obvious winner is Litter Box. She is educated in hairstyles, knows her way around a curling iron, and will be able to get Mauve to brush her godforsaken hair. And isn’t that the real goal here? To avoid dreadlocks at any cost?”
Pocket nods in agreement. “You’re so right, Bellini.”
“I know I am. That’s why I’m prettier than you.” Taking a bite from my blade of grass, I point at pocket and say mid chew, “Call Litter Box, let her know she’s won the pizza topping contest and invite her over here for when we get back from Corn-tucky. We have some matchmaking to finalize.”
**PAISLEY**
“If you are storing luggage in the overhead compartment, please be sure to maximize the space allotted for everyone. It’s going to be a full flight. Thank you.”
How many times is the flight attendant going to say that? I feel bad for them, constantly having to repeat themselves over and over again, no one ever really listening.
My phone beeps with a text message. Thankfully the cabin door hasn’t been shut yet so I’m free to use my electronics and personal devices. See, I listen.
I’m in the middle seat—thank you, Bellini—and waiting for the window seat person to show up. My fingers are crossed that they are a no-show. The lady next to me has to be at least ninety, going on one hundred ten. She’s wearing sunglasses, you know, the ones that wrap around the entire head, blocking off any kind of possible light, and her flowered crochet sweater is not only sporting smiling daisies, but it’s also buttoned up wrong . . . and tucked into her Alfred Dunner elastic-waisted khaki pants. A part of me wants to hug her and see if she has any M&M’s in her pocket to share with me, and the other half wants to poke her to see if she’s still breathing.
I look down at my phone to see a message from Reese. Just like a fourteen-year-old girl back in high school, my stomach flips in excitement.
Reese: This hotel room is empty. Know of anyone who might want to share it with me?
Knowing the lady next to me is probably as blind as a bat, I freely text him back without a worry of her reading my messages. Yes, you have to worry about those people, the ones looking over your shoulder, reading everything you type. I know this because I am one of those people. I learned my lesson once though when I was peeking at a man’s phone as he flipped through douchey pictures of himself, only to come across a naked selfie. Let’s just say bro was Italian and showing off his salad and macaroni.
Paisley: Who’s this?
I’ve always enjoyed being a ball-buster.
Reese: Oh shit, is this not Jessica? My bad.
Okay, maybe I’ve met my match.
Paisley: For that, I guess I will be warming my own bed tonight.
Reese: So you can dish it but you can’t take it? I will file that under information I need to know.
Paisley: Might be a good idea.
Reese: Did you get the little package I left in your bag?
Paisley: What? No.
Reese: Check your backpack.
Leaning forward, I reach for my backpack that rests under the seat in front of me and check the back pocket–the only one I didn’t use this morning since it has my laptop in it. Sure enough there is a drug store bag inside. Excitement courses through me as I open the bag to find a coloring book—construction trucks and planes—a package of twenty-four crayons and a package of Swedish Fish. He remembered I like to color: cue the girly melting. Damn it, my heart is beating a mile a minute from his gesture.
Paisley: I want to kiss you so fucking hard right now.
Reese: The feeling is mutual babe.
Paisley: Trucks and planes? Am I not lady enough for princesses?
Reese: Believe me, you’re all fucking woman. But the only girl coloring books I could find were Frozen. I think it’s time you write that letter.
Paisley: Haha. Thank you for sparing me from another coloring of Olaf. I’ve made him every possible color by now. I’m not a traditionalist.
Reese: I knew that from the moment I saw you. It’s why I like you so damn much.
Seriously, this man is very quickly burying a hole in my heart.
Paisley: Swedish Fish?