Must Love Otters Read Online Free

I stopped taking the iron supplements because I couldn’t poop, not unless I ate, like, a gallon of that Jamie Lee Curtis yogurt, and it was making me gassy. Not great in my line of work. I got tired of panicking every time someone would walk by my console after I’d cut a squeaker. Some things I can’t blame on Les or Troll Lady simply due to sheer geography.
    The face staring back at me looks … neglected. My eyebrows need threading. Haven’t had them done since the last wedding I went to for some girl who barely spoke to me in high school. Hey, if she wants to invite me to accost her open bar, who am I to deny? Said event was also the last time I saw my former best friend. I would tell you her name, but that’s like saying Voldemort out loud instead of calling him “He Who Shall Not Be Named.” If we give evil a name, it grows stronger.
    My former BFF was evil.
    Or that’s how I choose to see it. Because anyone who dumps you after you score them weed because you’re too weak to say, “No, we’re in a foreign country so we should probably not be buying drugs,” and then who gets mad at you because you don’t have enough cash to bail her ass out when she ends up in a Tijuana jail cell so you call her parents and her uncle lawyer hop-skip-jumps down from San Diego to save her from whatever was lurking in the dark shadows of that damp, dirty, bug-infested cell.
    (Wasn’t that the right thing for me to do?)
    She was the drunk/high one. She was the one who tried to dance on top of that cop car, even though I told her not to. She’s just lucky we didn’t end up as a missing persons’ case on America’s Most Wanted .
    But even if there had been hope for our eleven-year friendship, it got squished when she married a guy who made her stop being friends with anyone who eats meat or lives in unmarried sin or cheers curbside in bustiers at the Pride Parade. (My bustier is gorgeous, for the record. Whale bone, red leather, lace … HOT.) I guess her man has a ginormous penis. Why else would she break up with fun-loving, ever-watchful me to marry such a wet fart?
    Oh my God, is that a gray hair?
    A knock at the door. “Hol … phone.” I open wide enough for Keith’s hand to squeeze through but not wide enough that one of his little shit-munchers can get in here and steal my dirty underwear from the pile of laundry next to the tub.
    “Hullo?”
    “Hi, Hollie Cat … I wanted to catch you before you left for work.”
    “Hey, Dad. Thanks for the gift certificate.”
    “I thought it would be a nice change. Get you out of town for a little while. I know things have been tough at work.” Dad’s the one I text when someone has croaked on my line. I figure if I can talk to my dad—a man who has seen a lot of death in his line of work—it’ll keep me from having to attend those therapy sessions Polyester Patty harps about.
    “So, I was wondering if you and Keith could come over this weekend and help me move a few things. I’m not allowed to pick up more than ten pounds.”
    “Why?”
    “Hernia’s acting up.”
    “Dad, you were supposed to get that fixed.”
    “I am. I will.” For a nurse, my father is the worst damn patient. “Anyway, it would be good to see you kids.”
    “Just me, Dad. Keith has to work.”
    “The boxes aren’t heavy. I feel like an old man asking you, but at least I’ll get to see your pretty face.”
    “You’re not old.” I hate it when he says that. I don’t want to think about my father being old. Old means broken. Old means closer to dead. He lives alone, except for the weekly visits from crazy Aurora who still owns half their house and thus uses it for her primal scream Thursday events. I don’t know how he stands her. “I’m not old yet , but I’m not getting any younger waiting for grandchildren. When is that boy gonna get down on one knee?”
    And then it becomes crystal clear. The gift getaway to Revelation Cove has a purpose: he wants Keith to propose. To me. So