Amanda comes rushing back. “I can take Shannon home.” She cocks an eyebrow and seems to watch the doctor walk down the hall. “Take him home, too, if he’s single...”
Andrew better make his move. Fast.
“I want her to come back to my place.”
Shannon shakes her head “no” with such violence I think she’s make the ring come flying out of her.
“What?” Alarm and confusion fill me. “Why not?” There’s no better place for her to recover than with me.
She and Amanda look at me like I’m the stupidest person on earth. Shannon points to the French fry trays.
“Declan, do you seriously think there is any person alive who wants to hang out with their beloved while they wait to shit out their engagement ring?” Amanda asks. Shannon just buries her face in a spare pillow.
“When you put it that way...”
“Think of it like a colonoscopy.”
“What?”
“You ever take your dad to the hospital for his routine colonoscopy?”
“No. My father barely has time for a handshake. We don’t take each other to places where we have someone shove things in our asses.”
She gives me a hairy look. “You’re just like your brother.”
I’m not sure whether to be offended or pleased.
“My point,” she continues, “is that no one wants to be watched while they have things coming out of their butt that might be embarrassing.”
Which is every object that was ever up there, right?
“I see.” And I do. I guess if Shannon has to go through the unbearable humiliation of shitting out her own engagement ring, the only thing that could make it worse is to have me there.
“I am never, ever eating French fries again,” Shannon mumbles from behind her pillow.
A quick kiss on her cheek and a look of assurance from Amanda and I head out, wondering how I went from the perfect proposal to the perfect disaster.
And I still haven’t even popped the question.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Poopwatch, Day 1...
Andrew’s phone call comes out of nowhere the next morning. Shannon’s at her apartment, refusing to see me until the ring comes out, busy eating bran cereal and prunes. That tiny little place is going to smell like a frat house soon.
“You see Jessica’s tweet?” Andrew’s voice has a triumphant tone that sets my competitive streak to Engage.
“I unfollowed her a long time ago, bro.” Grace hasn’t given me a report today. What’s this about?
“You might want to check it out, because Shannon’s going to lose it when she sees what Jessica’s up to.”
Remember back in the good old days, in 2010 when Twitter wasn’t a topic of conversation? Yeah. Me too. I liked it better when My Space was the in thing and we didn’t check in on Facebook to notify people which bathroom we were using in which restaurant.
My phone buzzes with a text.
“That’s Shannon,” I say. “Thanks for the heads’ up.”
“Welcome. And let me know how Poopwatch is going.”
“What?”
“Poopwatch. That’s what Jessica’s calling it. Hashtag and all.”
“Wait!” Poopwatch? My proposal has a hashtag? At least it’s not Poopgate. Why does everything have to end in -gate?
Bzzzzz.
“How in the hell did she find out?” I know Shannon’s texting me like mad, and I steel myself for the inevitable screeching.
He snorts. “No idea, but it’s all over the Twitterverse.”
The fact that we have something called “the Twitterverse” is an abomination against nature.
Shannon’s text is a screenshot of a tweet from Jessica @jesscoffN. It is a picture of Shannon’s x-ray with the ring in sharp contrast to her ribs and soft organs, with the following tweet:
Shitty proposal #poopwatch @anterdec2
Next text from Shannon:
Can you marry me in jail? Because I’m going to kill her. Just get me a good lawyer if you want conjugal visits.
I have no doubt about Shannon’s homicidal tendencies right now. I have to confess to a touch of Schadenfreude, though, because it’s nice to be the one watching her anger instead of being the object of it.
I miss you, I text back.
See you in a few days, she replies.
Days? I have to wait days?
No. No wait. I’m coming over today.
You come over today and I let my mother plan your bachelor party, Shannon texts back.
Well, she’s got me there. I’m marrying a negotiation shark.
How about you call me when you’re ready to see me, I text.
How about I call you to help me bury Jessica’s body?
She’s only half joking. That’s the scary part.
How in the hell did Jessica get her hands on those X-rays? I’m puzzling through that one, madly texting Grace to get her on the job. Ten minutes later someone’s at my door. It’s Andrew, carrying a bag of bagels and wearing a scowl. The bagel bag slams against my wood counter and he heads straight for my coffeemaker.
“Got any scotch?” He pours himself half a cup of coffee, finds the alcohol before I can answer, and fills the rest of the mug with spirits.
“Help yourself.”
“Fucking Amanda.”
“You are?”
“No,” he says, so upset he’s shaking. Either that, or he’s such an alcoholic that delirium tremens have kicked in. Given his youth and overall vitality, I think it’s the former.
“What was going on between you two at the hospital?”
His ears turn pink and he chugs the entire mug of abominable coffee in one big gulp.