Page 130 of You've Got Hate Mail
But Lav comes barreling into the kitchen right after Natasha asks the question, which leaves me stammering that I need to get my daughter her breakfast and a little relieved that I don’t have to hash this out.
Natasha is good people.
I won the family lottery. I know I can talk to her.
But I just—I’m not ready.
Or I am ready—no, Ineedto be ready, and that’s terrifying, and I can’t let my little sister see or hear me scared of anything.
I don’t like being scared of anything. I’m the guy who runs to the danger.
Not the guy who hides from it.
The guy who fixes things for everyone else.
Not the guy who needs fixing.
And you know who I want to talk to about being broken?
Who’ll get it?
Who’ll tell me what to do in her normal, mildly chaotic way?
Cricket.
I want to fucking talk to Cricket about what to do about liking Cricket.
Just like I want to talk to Cricket about all of the reasons I’m afraid I’m not doing a good enough job with Lav.
And just like I want to talk to Cricket about how I feel like I always ask too much around here.
“Where’s Cricket?” Lav asks as I’m hanging up, her timing perfect as always.
“She had stuff to do this morning,” I lie.
It’s not exactly a lie, but it’s not the truth, which isshe’s taking care of a runaway chicken.
Which is just as charming and attractive as the way she’s subtly inserted herself into my life, taking one little thing offmy plate in the mornings that actually feels like a million little things.
The last time someone else was here, in my house, helping with Lav and the cat and making me coffee?
It was the last time my parents visited.
The time before that?
Also my parents.
For the past three years, it’s only been my parents when they visit.
Until Cricket.
My daughter squints at me. “Why are you acting weird?”
What six-year-old asks that? “I’m not acting weird.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I’m hungry,” I lie again.
