Page 41 of Meet Cute Reboot

At ten o’clock, my partners and I meet with an L.A.-based startup that has developed a line of masculine soaps called Ironforge, like Dr. Squatch but with more sophisticated fragrances, so the owner says. Without the advent of smell-o-vision, I can’t say whether their scents are anything special. I ask the business owner to send me their entire line and the entire Dr. Squatch line for comparison. The man-scent market might be too saturated, but I won’t know until our market analysts run the numbers.

After the meeting, my grumbling stomach tells me I need a snack. I head toward the kitchen with Korg on my heels. He does a little dance by the front door, so I let him out. Fall temperatures have finally descended into South Carolina. It’s not the crisp fall of Chicago, but at least it’s not scorching hot. I sit on the porch steps while Korg runs around smelling every inch of the front yard. When he finally finds an acceptable place to pee, he lifts his leg for what seems like five minutes. I swear that dog has a steel bladder. Finally, the stream reduces to a trickle. He claws at the dirt with his back legs to mark his territory, as if the pee wasn’t enough. I cluck my tongue, and he comes running.

We both enter the kitchen enthusiastically, to the chagrin of my hungover mother. She’s slumped at the eat-in table, cradling her head in her hands.

“Rough night?” I ask as I head to the fridge.

She peeks at me and rolls an eye. I assume her other eye rolled with it, but her hand is covering that side of her face.

Korg perches next to my mom, tongue out, panting, waiting for pets.

I grab cold cuts and cheese from the fridge and toss them onto the island. “Want a ham and cheese sandwich?”

Mom groans.

I didn’t figure. “How about a glass of water and some Tylenol?”

She flutters a hand in the air, and I take it as a yes.

I grab a bottle of Tylenol from the cabinet by the fridge, fill up a glass of water and take it over to her.

“I don’t think it will help,” she says.

“Might not.”

She uncrumples herself long enough to dispense two pills from the bottle, toss them into her mouth, and take a sip of water.

I walk back to the island to make my sandwich. Korg gives up hoping for Mom’s affection and curls on the floor by her feet. When I sit across from Mom with the sandwich in one hand and my own glass of water in the other, Mom winces.

“What,” I ask.

“The smell.”

“I showered last night and this morning.”

“Not you. The sandwich.”

“Oh.” I stuff half of it in my mouth. “Sorry.” My voice is muffled by bread and sandwich guts.

“I had a dream about—”

“I don’t think you had any dreams last night. You were dead to the world.”

“I dreamed you brought Cassie home.”

I take a swig of water and send my inadequately chewed food down my esophagus. “That wasn’t a dream, Mom.”

Mom straightens. The distressed expression on her face tells me the simple movement required a great deal of effort.

“No.” She shakes her head.

“Yes.”

“I told her about my booty call with your dad.” Realization sends the corners of her lips southward.

“The booty call you’re not going to answer.”

“She thinks I’m a slut. She thinks I’ll trade sex for real estate.”