Must Love Otters by Eliza Gordon Read Free Book Online Page B

wear his stupid stethoscope all the time—seriously, Ridley, would you ever have sex with a guy who wore a stethoscope, even when he wasn’t working?”
    “Depends on if he’s wearing only the stethoscope,” Ridley smiles.
    “You say that now, but unless he looks like you or Johnny Depp, it’s jus’ gross. Keith’s gut hangs over his pants and he’s got this weird hairline thing going down into his boy parts. Like when an Asian tries to grow a beard.” The Asian gentleman down the bar gives me a dirty look. “Sorry, man. No, really.” I lean closer to Ridley, boobs squished against the wooden bar. Hurts. “And even his penis—seriously, he acts like it’s some gift from the gods, but it’s nothin’ special. He’s not circumcised, which is weird.”
    “TMI, Hol.”
    “Sorry, man.”
    “Last call for you,” he says, sliding another shot in front of me. I blow him a kiss and try to wink but only one eye cooperates. Not sure which one.
    “Yeah, I’m going up north. I gotta take a floatplane to get there. Can you believe this—Keith wanted to take the dogs! Dumb guy just doesn’t understand what a woman needs.”
    “Me, either.” Ridley places a bowl of nuts in front of me. Ew. Gross. Nuts. Thank God they’re not Cheetos. I hate Cheetos. I hope Keith remembers to take all the Cheetos. “So what’s your plan?”
    “Dunno. But I ain’t goin’ with him because, well, I kicked him out. We’re done. Finito. He and his stupid little runt dogs.”
    “No more Keith, huh?”
    “Nope. No more Keith. Did I tell you that he burned my nipples? He totally did.” I clamp my hands over my boobs. They’re still sore. “And—I got in trouble at work. Some dude with a heart problem dressed like Batman and had crazy sex with his wife and it killed him. So that’s my fault? I didn’t spend years shoving cheeseburgers into this guy’s arteries. How is that my fault?”
    “Don’t you sign a confidentiality agreement to work at 911?”
    “Yeah … but you can keep a secret, right?” He smiles. “You know what the worst part is, though?”
    “Worse than a guy dying on the phone with you?”
    “Mm-hmm. Way worse.”
    “Hit me.”
    “I have to join the party-planning committee. With Candida, the yeast infection troll lady.”
    “That does sound serious.”
    “You have no idea.”
    “The whole day sounds pretty awful.” He’s counting the coins from the tip jar. I watch as the silver discs slide across the smooth bar top under his long, well-manicured fingers.
    “Not a total loss. I did talk to this sweet old lady who had this great story about her life with her Herb—her husband is Herb—she made me really think about shit, you know? Life shit. Important shit. I started asking myself some serious questions …”
    “Oh, that’s never a good thing.”
    “Isn’t it, though?” I swallow the schnapps. The peach tastes too sweet. Maybe I should switch to whisky. Get drunk like a grown-up.
    “What are you going to do, then?”
    “Dunno.”
    “World’s your oyster, kid. If you hate working at 911, quit. Find something new. You’re still young. Everything’s still perky and firm.”
    “So I should be a stripper?”
    “Or you could go back to school.”
    “God, you sound like my dad.”
    “Should I be insulted?”
    “Nah. My old man’s good. Just a nag. Thing is, I dunno what I wanna be when I grow up. I can’t do the medical thing. Even if my dad thinks that medicine is where it’s at and he’s a nurse—”
    “Your dad’s a nurse?” Ridley’s smile is so familiar. Everyone smiles like that when they learn about my dad’s job. Once the kids at school figured out that, despite his scrubs, he was the one who cleaned up their grandmother’s puke, not the one who stitched up her broken hip, the shit got thicker every year. And Dad’s last short-lived marriage was to a doctor, but she was a wicked-crazy naturopath who read people’s auras and accepted chickens as payment.
    “Shut