Page 134 of You've Got Hate Mail
My cat.
Shit.
I glance around, and—huh.
She’s still under the coffee table, sprawled on her back, occasionally batting at the air like she sees a bug or a speck of glitter.
I look back at Cricket.
She lifts a brow.
I clear my throat. Look at my cat again.
Then look back at Cricket. “While you’re getting food for The Cluckinator, can you please check the normal spots for… grass…seed?”
She pinches her lips together, nowclearlytrying not to laugh.
“Why do you need grass seed?” Lav asks.
Thank fuck that still goes over her head and she doesn’t know I’m asking Cricket in code to make sure Pip hasn’t been passing my daughter weed for my cat.
Fluffy’s definitely stoned.
Dammit.
I probably need to call the vet.
Hopefully it was finally a brand of catnip she likes, but if not—yeah.
The vet.
“Sometimes gardens need ornamental grasses,” Cricket says to Lav. “Come back and hang out with me after you find out if those were chicken eggs or dragon eggs.”
Lav throws her arms around Cricket’s waist and hugs her. “Okey dokey, hokeypokey.”
“Later-tater, alligator,” Cricket replies.
Cricket disappears back into her apartment.
Lav runs up the stairs. “I hope they’re still hot,” she says to me. “It’s harder to tell when they get cold.”
“They should be warm.”
“Can I have coffee when I turn seven?”
When she turns seven.
Shortly after the school year starts.
When I still half think that we should move. Even with Mabel fixing the fermentation building—there’s still risk here. Plus, if we can’t save the winery from foreclosure, we’ll have to move anyway.
All of us.
And that’s fucking terrifying.
With each passing day, the idea of leaving feels like shoving myself into a dark closet where I’ll never find friends again.
“You can try it and see if you like the taste,” I tell her.
