Page 1 of Cloudy With a Chance of Bad Decisions
Judging by the dildo in my backpack, letting Missy—my roommate turned cat-sitter—help me pack last night had clearly been a bad decision. One that was worse than wearing the loafers I’d chosen that morning which soaked up the New York rain like dry sponges. Hell, it was even worse than waiting until I'd left the office before telling Brendon, my immediate supervisor and ex-boyfriend (another bad decision), that I had scheduled time off. Which, of course, subsequently left me having a panic attack on the subway home.
I hadn’tactuallyforgotten.
It was on my calendar.
Which was sacred.
I’d consulted both our boss and HR to get approval for the dates I’d be gone. All my bases were covered, so to speak.
Brendon had, predictably, blown up my phone the entire ride, but I’d ignoredevery buzz in my pocket. Despite his fury, a sick wave of relief had flooded through me at the realization that I wouldn’t have to see him for eight blissful days.
Truthfully, I’d known that if I gave Brendon notice, he’d find a way to keep me in New York. And even though going back to small-town Ohio for my other ex, Roderick’s, wedding was not exactly the homecoming I was dying for, I couldn’t stomach the thought of causing my mother to makethatface.
Her disappointed face.
The same face she’d made for the last eight years every time I’d cancelled a trip home.
She always loved it when her “big city son” came to visit. She’d gossip with her friends, ask me thousands of questions, and parade me around town with her head held high and a smile on her round face.
But those visits had grown sparser and sparser as the years had dragged on.
Which had created a rift between us, leaving me both apprehensive and eager to heal the damage.
Life wasn’t fair.
At thirty-three, with soggy rain-soaked socks, I knew that better than anyone. Which was why there was a dildo in my backpack. Or, more accurately, therehadbeen a dildo in my backpack—before I’d accidentally knocked it out.
I immediately knew who the culprit was.
“Missy,” I gasped in horror as the veiny silicone soared through the air, right over the edge of the conveyor belt, and down to the floor.
A sane person would not bring a sex toy to their ex-boyfriend’s wedding. A fact that everyone—and I meaneveryone—in the entire world knew except Drunk-Missy-From-Last-Night, apparently.
There was no telling if she’d done this to fuck with me on purpose, or if she’d thought she was “helping”.This, as in, packing my fuckingdildo—nicknamed Nine-Inch-Neil for his length and girth—in my back-up backpack. The same backpack I took with me every time I traveled, full of avariety of clothing options on the off-chance fate fucked me in the ass and lost my checked bag.
It was a just-in-case bag.
Aprecaution.
Which waswhyI hadn’t thought anything of it when Missy had offered to shove the clothing I’d laundered earlier that day inside it. I should’ve known she’d been up to no good.
Missy had been a wild card the entire decade we’d been friends.
At fifteen years my senior, with gray hair, a wardrobe full of pastels, and an unrepentant taste forchaos—she, for some odd reason, thought she knew better than I did. Maybe because, even though she tended to opt for the most wildly unhinged choice available in any given situation, things always seemed to work out for her.
Some of us—and by that, I meanme—were not that lucky.
Once, Missy had stolen a shopping cart straight out of a drugstore. Walked out the front door with it and down the street with no interjection from the staff or police at all. She’d spent the weekend weaving ribbon through the metal till it resembled a satin basket on wheels. And then she’d returned it the following Monday—directly to the store manager, might I add—with a note that read “Merry Christmas.”
In July.
He’d offered her a job.
Knowing her, she’d probably thought the dildo would be a good omen.
But it wasn’t.
How could it be?
