“Really, it’s not that bad,” CiCi assures me from atop Gertrude. “I hear Feather Bound isn’t as stable as some of the other independent publishing houses. You probably dodged a bullet there.”
I take a gulp of wine straight from the bottle. “No, I dodged a pigeon.”
“Think of it as a sign from the gods. You weren’t meant to have that job, and they sent the pigeon to tell you.”
I drink faster.
Getting outrageously drunk seemed the only recourse for the day. Tom had dinner plans and Trina was at some drinks thing for work, so I brought CiCi back to the apartment with me to wallow in misery and wine. A very large amount of wine.
“I’m going to be living on my brother’s couch forever,” I say hopelessly. “That was the first nibble on a job I’ve had in months. My life is an actual nightmare.”
“What I’m hearing here is that you’re ready to throw Caspian Tiddleswich under the bus.”
I take a bigger drink. “No. You know what I think? I think that pigeon was Odin or the universe punishing me for even thinking about messing with another person for my own gain. That’s what it was. A karmic pigeon.”
“You’re drunk.”
“Yes, yes, I am. And I’m serious. Think of what would happen if I tried to sell it!”
“What? A pigeon would drop a piano on your head?”
I blink at her. “You’re drunk, too.”
“Damn skippy, I am.” She takes another pull.
I flop back onto the couch and hug the bottle. “I wish I could undo all of it. Maybe send him an email saying I found the stuff and I destroyed it and no one will ever know about it and all is well in the universe. If I fess up to being a horrible person, and then burn all the evidence, it’ll purge my sin or something.”
“I know you’re not Catholic, but speaking as someone who spent her high school years being reprimanded by nuns, I’d say you’ve got the Catholic guilt thing down really well.”
“It’s nice to know I’m doing something right.”
CiCi leans forward and sets her bottle down on the coffee table. “Tell you what. A friend of mine works for the place that did the publicity for the audiobook he narrated a year ago. Maybe I could get his email address.”
My eyelids are sticking to my eyes. “Really? Caspian’s?”
“Maybe.” She yawns. “Would it make you feel better?”
I consider this. “You know, it just might.”
She pulls out her phone and fires off a quick text. “There. If the universe wants you to air it out, the email address will come.”
We both stare at the phone in her hand for a few minutes, waiting for the universe to confirm my fate. After a while, we decide the universe is off getting drunk, since it’s Friday night, and I order us a pizza.
Hours later, our bottles are empty, the room is spinning, and we’ve been trying to find something to watch on Netflix for at least a week and a half.
She scans the choices on her laptop for the hundredth time and gasps. “Oh my god. Poirot. We have to watch this.”
I try to unpeel my tongue from the roof of my mouth. “I still haven’t seen season three.”
“The universe totally wants us to watch this.”
“Um-phmph.”
She clicks Play, and we settle in. There are two Caspian Tiddleswiches on the screen, and it takes me a good five minutes to realize this is just my vision, not an actual part of the show.
“He looks really weird in a fake mustache,” I muse. “And I don’t get why he dyed his dogs.”
“Is that what happened? I thought he just got new dogs. You’ve got to admit he looks pretty hot in those dressing gowns.”
“Whatever—I’m in it for his suits. That man can wear a suit,” I declare. The character of Poirot appears on-screen shirtless, and I can feel my tongue hanging out. “Never mind. He doesn’t need the suits.”
“Ooh, look at him, all muscly. I read he had to buff up to be in that new space assassins movie. In all my years on this planet, I’ve never given a fig for intergalactic assassins, but if he’s going to be strutting through space looking like that, I’ll buy a ticket.”
“It’s the least we can do,” I say. “Go pay to see his movie. We were planning to ruin his life and all.”
“Balance.” Her phone pings, and she holds it up. “Dude.”
“You called me dude.”
“Shut up,” she says, slapping my arm and sort of falling over beside me on Gertrude. “Look. My friend didn’t give me his email.”
I frown. “Oh. I guess no clear conscience for me.”
“No, look!” CiCi slaps me again. “She gave us his phone number.”
I gape at the phone. “What do I do with that?”
She slaps me yet again. I try to slap her back, but miss. “You. Call. Him.”
I sit straight up, and the room spins faster. “I can’t call him! Are you deranged?”
“I’m sending it to your phone,” she says, poking at her screen. “Just call and tell him everything you would have said in the email! The universe wants you to call him. And the universe also really wants you to get him to go on a date with me wearing one of those dressing gowns.”
“The universe wants that?”
“Hey, the universe hasn’t gotten laid in a hot minute. The universe is due.”
I rub my eyes. “Are...are you the universe?”
Staring off into absolutely nothing, she sounds completely awed when she says, “I think I just might be.”
The front door opens, and in walks Tom, stopping short when he spots his sister and her best friend collapsed together, surrounded by empty wine bottles on his couch. His ugly, ugly couch.
“Bad day?” he asks tentatively.
“We got attacked by a pigeon, and then I lost a potential job,” I slur.
“That is a bad day.”
“I think I need to sleep,” CiCi groans.
“I think you need to pass out and make sure you’re not on your back when you do,” I mumble, trying to wiggle into a horizontal position beside her.
Tom laughs. “My big sister, ladies and gentlemen.”
I sit up and glare at him. “Who are you talking to when you do that? I mean, really.”
Trying hard to use his best serious face, he fails and offers to drive CiCi home.
“You are a god among men, Tom Montgomery. If you weren’t the little brother of my pal and engaged to another woman, I’d totally date you and shit.”
“She’s drunk!” I call out. “She’s ‘and shit’–ing stuff!”
My poor brother helps a stumbling CiCi gather her things and guides her to the door. “Oh, hey, Clara. You should absolutely call that guy.” CiCi dramatically taps her nose. “You know, that guy. And confess your sins and ask him about the dressing gowns. I really like those dressing gowns.”
“I like his suits.”
“Um, Clara?” Tom says, propping CiCi up with his arm. “Did you say you got attacked by a pigeon?”
“She really did,” CiCi says, clutching the door frame. “I saw it. The actual whole universe sent a hit-pigeon to smite your sister.”
I can tell Tom is using everything he has to not smile. “Well, I hate to break this to you, but I think he used an air strike.”
I blink at him and try to make sense of his words. CiCi loudly sucks in air. “Oh my god,” she says. “I didn’t even notice. You absolutely have bird poo in your hair and shit.”
I press my lips together and nod. “Of course I do.”
CiCi falls over giggling, Tom barely catches her before she hits the floor, and he can’t keep his own laughter inside anymore.
He leads CiCi out, and I stumble off the couch into the bathroom and spot the pigeon remnants right above my ear. Fuck that pigeon.
I very clumsily wash that bit of my hair off in the sink, feeling that an actual shower right now could be potentially dangerous. Then I head into the kitchen, still pawing at my head with a towel. I pour myself a big glass of water and start sipping, knowing this might be my only hope of not waking up feeling like a deflated, hungover tire.
I pick up my phone to send CiCi a text asking her to let me know when she gets home safe, when I see the last message from her is that phone number.
What if the discovery of the bird poo was the universe reminding me I still need to atone? That buying a movie ticket and destroying the papers isn’t enough?
I think of Tiddleswich as Poirot, all shirtless and detective-y, and wonder if he’d get a lot of detective role-play requests if he was still in the escort biz. Or if, back in the day, did he really get paid a hundred bucks an hour to cuddle someone?
I wonder if anyone would pay me to cuddle them for a hundred bucks.
The universe has spoken. Well, the bird poo got the message across, anyway.