Rock Bottom Girl(106)

“Marley.” I shook her.

“Let me die in peace,” she groaned.

“Your dad just walked in on us in bed together, and I’m wearing his bike shorts.”

She rolled toward me, wincing at the motion. “Why are you in his bike shorts?”

“How the hell should I know? Also, I might be new at this relationship thing, but even I know it’s bad form to be caught in your girlfriend’s bed in her parents’ house.”

“We’re thirty-eight years old, Jake,” she rasped, exploring her own cotton mouth.

“It doesn’t matter if we’re eighty. It’s disrespectful! And now I’ve got my junk all over his bike shorts. What kind of message does that send?”

She yanked the blanket off me and wrapped it around her head. “Can we discuss this next week when I’m not actively dying?”

The door opened again. But this time, instead of a bewildered Cicero, it was a short stranger in a blue bathrobe. “This isn’t the bathroom,” he observed, backing out of the room. His gaze lingered on my bike shorts.

“Across the hall,” Marley croaked.

“Yep. Cool. Sorry.” He shut the door.

“Who the fuck is making all that racket? If it’s one of my kids, I’m selling them to the gypsies when they come through town again.”

Marley and I stared wide-eyed at each other before peering over the side of the bed. Vicky had made a nest in clean laundry and had one of Marley’s bras wrapped around her head to block the light.

“Are your kids here?” Marley demanded.

“That depends,” Vicky said, pulling a pair of sweat pants over her shoulders. “Where is here?”

“My parents’ house.”

“Oh, good. Then they’re probably not here.”

“Shit.” I reached for my phone and realized I had no idea where it was. It was probably in my pants which were also missing.

“What’s wrong besides the obvious?” Marley asked.

“Homer. He needs breakfast and to be let out. What time is it?” I was the worst dog parent in the history of dog parents. I imagined my poor canine pal pinching his back legs together to keep from pissing all over the kitchen floor and staring mournfully at his empty food dish.

“Here,” Marley pressed her phone into my hand. “Call your uncles.”

I dialed and lay back down to stop the room from spinning.

Uncle Max answered with his trademark “Good morning!”

“Uncle Max,” I croaked.

“Well if it isn’t our little Frankie Valli.”

“It’s Jake,” I corrected him.

“You don’t remember a damn thing about last night, do you?” Max laughed.

“If you could be more specific, I’d appreciate it. I just woke up in my girlfriend’s bed in her dad’s bike shorts.”

Max’s laugh was loud and long. “Hang on. I can’t breathe. Wooo!”

“Uncle Max, I need you to go check on Homer for me—”

“You mean the furry beast who just conned me out of my last donut hole?”

“He’s with you?” I sat up in bed and immediately regretted it.

“You don’t remember calling last night and leaving a voicemail singing about how much you love your Homie? Marley sang back-up.”

“I do not.”

“Don’t worry, I forwarded it to Lewis and your mom. Also your cousin. You did an enthusiastic version of Frankie Valli’s ‘Sherry,’ and you creatively changed Sherry to Homie.”

That explained the sore balls and throat.

“I’m never going to that party again,” I groaned.

“Well, take your time apologizing to the Ciceros for being an inconsiderate drunkard. Homer is farting all over Lewis’s armchair.”

“Did you walk him?”

“To the park where he flirted with some Maltipoo one-quarter his size.”

“Feed him?”

“Do donuts count?”

“No, they do not.”

“Relax. He had his ration of kibble before his donut.”

“Thanks, Uncle Max.”

“Thank you for the entertainment. I’ll forward you the voicemail,” he promised.

I said goodbye and hung up.

“Homer okay?” Marley asked over Vicky’s snoring.

“He’s farting up my uncles’ house.”

“I guess I should go explain this tableau to my parents,” she yawned.

“Marley, I’m not exaggerating when I say I would marry you for a Gatorade right now.”

She snorted, unimpressed with my profession of love. “I’ll see what I can do.”





I’d never done the walk of shame to the breakfast table in a woman’s parents’ house before. Then again, I’d never gotten caught in a girl’s room before.

Marley found sweats for me, so I didn’t have to make my appearance in Ned’s bike shorts. Unfortunately, her clothes weren’t much better. The sweatpants accentuated my junk in a creepy porn movie sort of way. The sweatshirt was so tight I worried I’d bust the seams if I coughed too hard.

“Good morning,” Jessica said chipperly. She made a valiant effort to ignore the inappropriate bulge in my pants.