I haven’t even gotten to work yet and I’m so ready for my week to be over. Plus, P&P have strong-armed me into meeting them at the diner again, because it’s their new favorite, and they’re going to eat at it every day until forever.
Which means, probably, sometime next week, and I’m sure I’ll be obligated to show up until they get tired of it. I hope they don’t just stand me up one of these days; that is my absolute least favorite way of learning that they’re tired of a place. Or maybe second, after getting chased away by the chef that time that they still won’t give me an explanation for.
(I have such weird friends.)
But for diner food, it’s not bad, and I hate my new schedule, so obviously I’m not going to be able to bring myself to actually make breakfast (lunch (brunch)) for a while.
Priscilla hands me a maple mocha and I realize I’m just sitting here silently staring at the menu. From the intent stares, more than a few minutes have passed since I sat down. I don’t even remember walking in here, I swear.
She stifles a laugh. “Poor baby. Work got you down?” then she makes a face like maybe she shouldn’t have said that much, and, honestly, she’s more paranoid than half the people I work with.
“Get the garden omelette,” Perry tells me.
I sort of scowl at her, but there’s not much force behind it, because I’m only a quarter of the way through my mocha.
Perry grins at me. “You have to try the habanero fries; they’re amazing, and you’re not going to get them if you load up on carbs again.”
“Hash browns,” I mutter, “you get hash browns with omelettes.”
It totally doesn’t matter, though, because Perry orders for me, and she goes ahead and orders the garden omelette and the habanero fries.
Which is bullshit, because I wanted pancakes.
Also, I’ve finished my mocha now, so I do actually manage a scowl.
Priscilla distracts me with another mocha because she is a traitor to every cause in the entire world, especially the ones that contradict each other and now I can’t remember what I was going to say.
“You need to eat more vegetables, Fox,” Priscilla tells me, in that same voice that she uses – and I know, I’ve heard her do it – to get the kids to stop crying while they do their makeup.
Perry grins at me and spreads her arms.
Yes, fine, Perry, you’re queen of the fucking world, I will eat my goddamned vegetables. Of course Pris agrees with her; they’re only joined at the fucking hip. I can’t believe they eat lunch together every single day, isn’t it bad enough they work together? Not that I’m one to talk.
I mean, vegetables in omelettes is way better than the whole wheatgrass thing, though.
“Pendergast is being an asshole again,” Perry tells me.
I don’t know why she’s surprised. Pendergast is always an asshole.
“We just saw the honest to goodness worst movie,” Priscilla tells me, after Perry finishes her rant, and proceeds to describe the honest to goodness worst movie I’ve heard about in a while.
The omelette actually isn’t bad, though, and the habanero fries are probably the best I’ve had at a diner, which is surprising, and I’m grateful for the recommendation/eminent domain, because I probably wouldn’t have gotten them with pancakes. The ladies know I like me some spicy fries. So I forgive them.
“Are you coming over this weekend?” Perry asks me, apropos of we-both-know-exactly-what.
I nod. “But it’ll have to be tomorrow; party Sunday.” If I can make it, with Darren sick.
“Ooh, exciting,” Priscilla says, batting her eyelashes, “you’re a wild one, Travis.”
I make a grumpy face at her, and she pushes my mocha back into my hands. I can’t properly roll my eyes, because I’m laughing too hard to aim them. “Birthday party. Eugene’s youngest. Well.”
Priscilla claps her hands over her mouth, while Perry says, “yay, cape gossip.”
“Yes, what scintillating gossip,” I say, “Sinead’s pregnant. Also, she’s announcing already, so.”
“Yay!” Priscilla says, at the same time Perry says, “amazing, which one is Eugene?”
I sigh at them, because I don’t know why they still get a kick out of that game.
Priscilla nudges me. “Are we invited to the shower?”
“I don’t know, that depends on how big it is, and also how much you offended the hosts last time you were at their house,” I tell her.
Perry gasps at me. “I would never offend the host of anything, ever!”
“Talk show hosts exempted,” Priscilla whispers. Then, staring at me, “wait, we’ve met the lucky soon-to-be-a-dad-again?”
“When was this?” Perry asks me.
I drop my head into my hands. “They’re the ones that throw my birthday parties. They also show up to cookouts and stuff all the time, you know.”
“Oh, right,” Priscilla says, looking like she’s trying to picture their home.
Perry smacks a hand down on the table. “Yes, okay, I know them. Oh, yay, Eugene’s having another baby!”
“That seems like odd timing,” Priscilla says, after she figures out who they are, too, a minute later, “was it planned?”
I give her a Look.
“Whatever, as long as they’re happy,” Priscilla says, “then it’s just another excuse for me to go buy more of those tiny socks that look like shoes.”
“Speaking of babies,” Perry says, raising an eyebrow at me.
“What about babies,” I deadpan.
“Are you planning on?” Perry asks, full on smirking now.
“Are you?” I shoot back, because I didn’t even manage to bring up Eugene’s without getting a terrified look. And also because Perry knows my parents, but I know hers, too.
“Sure, you can knock me up,” Perry says, while Priscilla gives her a scandalized gasp.
Personally, I have to agree with that one.
Perry pouts and turns away from me to stage-whisper, “he doesn’t want to be my baby-daddy.”
“Good,” Priscilla says.
Perry pouts at her, too, then, and for some reason looks to me for backup.
I sigh. “Fine. I’ll father your children. How many babies are you planning on?”
“Seventeen,” she says, without a trace of a grin.
Priscilla crosses her arms on the table in front of her and thunks her head down onto them. “Wake me up when it’s all over,” she mutters at us.
“Uh-huh,” I say, munching on a fry, because if she’s going to get going, I may as well not stand in the way. “I suppose you have names picked out?”
Then the grin does come out. “Oh, sure, Punctuality, Penitence, Practicality, Perseverance, Perfectionism, Passive-Aggression, how many is that now?”
“Six,” Priscilla tells her, from inside her arm-fort.
“Hmm,” Perry says, “Permafrost, Purple, Private Eye, Proportional Force, Parole Hearing, Particle Accelerator, Permeable, Predictable, Pizzazz, Pinecone, and Pilot Inspektor.”
“And the best part is,” I say, “that they work for boys AND girls.”
“I know!” Perry beams at me.
“I hate you,” Priscilla mutters.
“Me or her?” I ask.
“Both of you,” she says into her arms, “but you most of all for going along with it. Bitch.”
I stifle a laugh just long enough to say, “I’m sorry, Pris, I’ll father your babies, too.”
She lifts both her middle fingers out of their protective cover, but not her head.