You kneel next to Toodles, preparing to sweep his throat clear, but his jaws gnash closed during a convulsion and you back away. Nope. Not doing that. It could still be rabies.
After a few seconds, Toodles stops moving.
And breathing.
You can’t have killed their dog.
You lean in, putting your mouth to the dog’s, pushing all the air out of your lungs and into his. You see his chest rise with your breath. This could work. It could actually work! Then you inhale—oh, fuck, that’s foul. You back away, gagging heavily. By the time you’ve gotten control of your breathing, the dog looks even deader.
With a trembling finger, you move his tongue out from the back of his throat. At least it will look like you tried.
* * *
If you want to call Lindsi and tell her what happened, go HERE.
If you want to go upstairs and pretend you were sleeping, go HERE.
You have to get out of this fucking house, if only for fifteen minutes.
You stamp out to your car—hopefully Lindsi hears how pissed you are—and Google the nearest bar. It’s ten miles away. Jesus, why does anyone live in this godforsaken town?
You get to the bar and walk in. It’s mostly empty—it’s Christmas Eve, after all—except for one guy about your age sitting at the far corner of the—
Oh, FUCK that. It’s Steve, the mall Santa.
You take a seat as far away as possible.
He gets up the minute your beer arrives and walks around to sit next to you. “Hey, don’t I know you?”
“Yeah.” You glare. “I’m Lindsi’s boyfriend.”
“Oh. Ohhhh.” He looks away, sheepish. His hands are folded in his lap. “Sorry about earlier. Lindsi can be…flirty. I shouldn’t have played along. I didn’t realize she was seeing anybody.”
“That’s okay,” you say grudgingly. He’s right, after all. Lindsi can be more than flirty. You were only at the mall because of her sex attack.
“Here, let me buy you a beer to make up for it.” Steve motions the bartender over with his left hand.
You can’t argue with that.
After a couple of rounds, you’re warming up to Steve. He has hilarious stories about his time in the army, but even better, stories about Lindsi in high school. You’re cracking each other up over her sleep farts—you never thought you’d find someone to talk about that with. And frankly, being on the moral high ground—forgiving the veteran with one hand, because you’re a bigger person—makes you feel pretty good about yourself. Pitying someone a little is always a good way to start a friendship.
You get up to go the bathroom. On the way, the bar door opens.
“BRO!” Steve yells at the guy entering. They man-hug, then start a complicated handshake…with their right hands.
Wait a second, isn’t that one supposed to be prosthetic?
They’re wiggling fingers, bumping fists—Steve’s is definitely fully closed—even holding fake spectacles to their eyes.
If that’s a prosthetic it is fucking top of the line.
Why would Lindsi lie about that?
Why would she let him grope her right in front of you?
You stare into the urinal, your thoughts getting darker and darker. She had to know he was the mall Santa all along—why else would a grown woman want to sit on a Santa’s lap? Usually they’re creepy old men with beer guts and beard-induced acne. If she knew, that means they must have been in contact. Recently.
Knowing Lindsi, they probably fucked before you showed up for Christmas. Steve really seemed to have strong memories of those sleep farts.
You head back to the bar, relieved that Steve is talking to his friend more than you.
You can only stay here so long, then you’ll have to go back. For Christmas. With your cheating girlfriend who hates you.
You hold up your hand to the bartender, then point at your pint.
“And a shot, please.”
The End.
When you come downstairs the next morning, it’s clear from the looks on everyone’s faces that Mom has shared what happened.
Awesome. Now everyone thinks you’re a sex perv because of your possibly clinical girlfriend.
You sit on the couch, forcing a smile as Mom hands presents around. Lindsi scoots in next to you, resting her hand on your thigh…then moving it higher.
Just pretend nothing’s happening.
The longer you sit there, the more overt Lindsi’s advances get. At one point she leans over to whisper, “I wish you would fuck me in my childhood bedroom,” then licks your ear.
Jimmy’s watching the pair of you hungrily, hand at the ready in his sweatpants pocket, like some sort of proverbial Christmas mouse waiting around for you to drop a proverbial Christmas sex crumb.
Mom coughs, trying to draw Lindsi’s attention away from rubbing your pecs.
“Lindsi.” She looks over, but doesn’t stop rubbing. “Would you like to give your gift to…” Mom stares at you, lips drawn back in deep disgust. She can’t even bring herself to say your name.
“Sure. We can exchange gifts.”
Your real present for Lindsi is back in your apartment, but you figured she’d want something more, since you’re spending Christmas with her family.
She opens the envelope you stuck under the tree. Inside is a handwritten “gift certificate” for “dinner on me.” Whatever, your mom always loved those good-kid coupon books.
“Ohh, how romantic.” She caresses the side of your head, drawing her finger down your neck. You’re simultaneously aroused and terrified. “Now open mine!”
You unwrap the small box she’s laid in your hand. Inside is a watch—scratch that, a fucking Rolex.
“Lindsi, this…this is too much.”
“Not for you,” she purrs. “Anyway, I need you to look fancy on our trip.”
“Our…what?”
“To Jamaica! I booked us at an all-inclusive Kingston resort the last week in January. Don’t worry, I called your boss to get you the time off.”
“Oh. That’s great. Wow.” You try not to let the fear show in your eyes.
A week ago you would have said this relationship was on the right track, but now you’re mildly terrified. You’ve been together, what, four months? And she’s spending thousands on you? Where does she even get the money? PR isn’t that lucrative.
Lindsi leans in as the family watches Dad open a present.
“Listen, I thought since your plans got canceled, you could stay here through New Year’s.”
“Oh, I’m not sure—”
“Don’t worry, babe, Jimmy is leaving tomorrow, so we’ll have your bedroom all to ourselves. I’ll try not to scream too loud.”
She said that very loud. Everyone’s staring, horrified.
Same here, VanWhittingtons.
The End.
Man, Lindsi is going to owe you huge after this weekend. Even with the terrible sweater, you’ve earned a holiday beej…actually, several.
“Oh, haha,” you laugh unconvincingly. “Thanks, hon, this is perfect…for that…play I’m in.”
Lindsi frowns. Her face is beet red.
“Maybe Lindsi didn’t tell you, but I do some amateur theater.” Lars raises an eyebrow, obviously stifling a laugh. Lindsi’s sister Luanne won’t even look at you. “We’re putting on a production of…the Marquis de Sade’s…stuff. It’s kind of a mashup.”
You can’t actually remember any of his books, just that he’s a famous perv.
“It’s a story of young love…” Mom coughs awkwardly. “And, uh…coming of age?” Why would coming of age involve dungeon pegging? Fuck, think fast. “And you know, it’s very experimental. Pushes the envelope.”
“What are you playing?”
Dad is staring at you, mouth in a tight line, as though trying his best to swallow your bullshit, despite his body’s revolt against it.
“I’m sorry?” Does he want to hear about your sex play with his daughter, or…
&nb
sp; “In the show. Your character.”
“Oh. I’m, um…the…inquisitor? It’s loosely set during the Spanish Inquisition.”
Mom gets up and walks out of the room. No one else will look at you.
“Anyway, thanks, sweetie.” You drop the dildo-suit into the box. “It’ll be perfect.”
• • •
The rest of the day is filled with awkward moments of quickly removed eye contact, a general refusal to sit next to you, and what you have to assume is a now-permanent look of disgust pinching Mom’s features.
This is a baker’s dozen beej day.
But at least the day is over. That’s something. You head to the bedroom you’re sharing with Jimmy, exhausted beyond comprehension.
Just as you’re drifting off to sleep, you hear him roll over.
“Do you like my outfit?”
“What?”
“My outfit. Do you like it?”
You blink awake. Jimmy is wearing a near-identical straps-and-dildo contraption over a pair of tightie-whities. You’d swear it was the same one—that he’d just stolen it out of the box in the living room no one wants to go near anymore—but his has studs along the chest. Lindsi’s had oh-so-ladylike heart cutouts in the leather.
“It’s, um…” How can you possibly respond to this in a way that’s not felonious? How do you respond to something like this, full stop?
“I thought I was the only one,” Jimmy says.
“That was actually a woman’s outfit.”
“This will be our secret,” Jimmy whispers, rolling over.
Oh Jesus, you really never wanted to hear those words out of a minor’s mouth.
The End.
Jesus CHRIST. You have spent this entire holiday—which has only been one fucking day so far—covering for Lindsi, and now she just bends you over again and expects you to take it? Literally?
Fuck this.
“Wow, Lindsi, I have no idea why you would have bought this. Is this some kind of sick joke?”
Her eyes widen, like a trapped animal. It almost makes you pity her…then you look at the dildo contraption you’re holding up in front of her entire family and forget that.
“You trying to force your perverse tastes on me is not appreciated.”
Her sister, Luanne, gives a strangled sound of agreement.
“Beyond that, I’m shocked at the lack of boundaries. How did you think it would make me feel to open a fetish outfit in front of your father? Seriously, Lindsi, you need help. Professional help.”
She glares, obviously livid, but says nothing. What can she say? She gifted a fucking dildo suit.
“Ahem. If I might interject.” Mom’s voice is even icier than usual. You suppose it’s only fair she’d side with the one she actually carried in her uterus, even if she is patently in the wrong.
“Please.” You’re all benevolence. You’re maintaining the moral high ground, dammit.
“I believe I made a mistake.”
Lindsi nods vigorously.
“I’m sorry?” Your stomach drops. You really put all your eggs in the throw-Lindsi-under-the-bus basket. This doesn’t sound good.
“On Christmas, I usually wake the kids,” Mom says, smiling at Lars, Luanne, and Lindsi in turn. “When I went into Lindsi’s room, I noticed a box with a tag on top indicating it was for you. It wasn’t wrapped, and I just assumed she hadn’t had time. I thought it would be nice if I wrapped it and snuck it under the tree. I see now she had no intention of giving it to you publicly. It’s my mistake.”
Mom’s lip curls triumphantly.
“Now that we’ve cleared that up, who wants pannekoeken?” Dad sputters. Everyone shuffles out, clearly grateful to escape.
You follow a few paces behind, head down, until Lindsi stops you with a hand to the shoulder.
“Where are you going?” Her eyes are so buggy you’re afraid they might fall out of her head.
“Breakfast?”
“Uh, no, you should go. Like, home.”
“Lindsi, I’m sorry, but look at it from my position.” She’s shaking her head, lips pinched so tight they’re white. “I’ll apologize to your mom. Though really, she shouldn’t have been snooping in your room. What did she think she…”
“Go.”
“Lindsi, it was an honest—”
“And lose my number. Permanently.”
She stalks off into the kitchen, leaving you alone in the hall.
By the time she comes back to the city, she’ll have cooled off, right?
You grab the fetish suit and stuff it in your duffel on the way out. Just in case you’re right.
The End.
The third time you try her phone, Lindsi picks up, whisper-hissing at you.
“What do you want? We’re at church.”
“I know, I wouldn’t have called if it weren’t an emergency but…your dog. I think he’s…dead.”
“What?”
“He had some kind of fit, just keeled over on the rug, and now he’s not breathing.” You opt not to mention the failed attempt at mouth-to-mouth.
“Are you fucking kidding? You don’t even recognize canine epilepsy when you see it?”
“Dogs can have epilepsy?”
“This is totally preventable. You just grab the rod chew toy—we keep one in every room for exactly this reason—wedge it in the back third of his mouth, then lean on Toodles with your entire body weight while not restricting his breathing.”
What the fuck?
“No one even told me Toodles had a condition. If I’d known—”
“Just…stop. We’re coming home now. Try not to kill anything else I love.”
Lindsi hangs up.
About twenty minutes later the family walks through the door, Lindsi weeping, unable to look at you without narrowing her eyes murderously. Eventually, she heads out with her father and Lars to dig a temporary “snow grave.”
As soon as they’ve left, Mom pulls you aside.
“Well done.” She’s smiling conspiratorially.
“What?”
“How could you possibly know how to help an epileptic dog, right?” She gives you an exaggerated wink.
“Are you…happy about this?”
“No, how could I be happy to be rid of an animal who’s unpredictably incontinent? One who’s broken three heirloom vases just this year? One who sleeps in bed with us ‘in case something happens’ and is then incontinent? No, I’m devastated.” Mom grins more widely.
That’s unsettling.
* * *
Click HERE to continue.
You dash upstairs and throw on your pajamas, lying under the covers and waiting silently for the family to return. You can say you were tired—that would be plausible, right? And the fit wasn’t that loud. They’ll have to believe you slept through it.
Finally, you hear the sound of booted feet tramping inside.
Wait for it. Just a few…
“AHHHHHHHH! TOOOOOODLES!”
Lindsi’s shriek bounces up the stairs. You run to the head of the stairs, then slow down and dramatically rub your eyes as you descend.
“What’s going on?” You yawn. “Is everything okay?”
Lindsi rushes into your arms, bawling.
“It’s Toodles. He’s…he’s DEAAAAAAAD!”
“What? Oh my god, what happened?”
“It appears he’s been dead for some time.” Jimmy pokes at the dog while Lindsi weeps. “His tongue may have been moved postmortem.”
Luckily, Lindsi can’t seem to hear him over her sobs.
“Here, honey, let me get you to bed.” You pat Lindsi’s head reassuringly. She clings to you. Who knew dead dogs ended fights so effectively? “It won’t seem as bad in the morning.”
“Oh…oh-kay,” she chokes. You head up the stairs and tuck her in, like a child. She smiles gratefully as she drifts off to sleep.
You head down to offer help—hoping they take it as hollowly as you mean it—but only Mom is inside.
&nb
sp; You frown, confused.
“They’re digging a temporary snow grave,” she says. “Thanks to you.” She should be disgusted—she’s always disgusted with you—but instead Mom winks exaggeratedly, grinning ear-to-ear.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Right, because you were in bed at seven thirty. And didn’t finish your drink. And didn’t hear the dog dying.”
She’s still smiling.
“Any idiot can tell when a tongue has been moved post-mortem. So I must have you to thank.”
“Thank? Are you…happy about this?”
“No.” Mom shakes her head. “How could I be happy to be rid of an animal that I have to baby-bird feed? One that broke three Precious Moments figurines just this year? One whose incontinence is never conveniently timed? No, I’m devastated.” She grins more widely.
That’s unsettling.
“Don’t worry, though, it’s our little secret,” she says, patting your shoulder. “We’re the only ones who ever have to know.”
* * *
Click HERE to continue.
Christmas morning, the family decides they’re too devastated by Toodles’s death to celebrate.
“You can help,” Lindsi says flatly around ten. You pray she’s talking about breakfast. What’s the etiquette on raiding someone’s fridge if they haven’t fed you? Is two hours fair? Should you push it until eleven? You still have a few leftover Combos from the drive up…
“Happy to help.” You smile widely. Lindsi sneers. “What do you need?”
“You to build the website for the memorial fund.”
“Memorial…”
“We’ll be taking donations for retriever epilepsy. I’m sure anyone would be generous after such a tragedy. At Christmas.”
You nod silently, sitting down at the laptop Lindsi has set up on the kitchen table.
Choose Your Own Misery Page 26