Page 26 of Total Jane Wreck

Then, Chet gasps. Jerks back like someone burned him with a cattle prod. “Holy hell!” He grabs me around the waist. Almost lifts me, almost throws me to the side. Almost, but not quite.

Instead, I’m crouching, watching as Chet, who’s grabbed an ancient paintbrush, swings it around like he’s a samurai, then stomps his feet on the creaky wooden floorboards.

“What’s happening?” I ask.

“Spiders!” Chet cries. “That’s what’s happening. There was a web!” He points to the spot where, a moment ago, I stood. “A spider was about to jump onto you, Jane.”

“And this is a five-alarm bell emergency?”

Chet’s stomping ceases. He stares at me, aghast. “Have you ever been bitten by a spider? Had one burrow beneath your skin, only to lay eggs, so its babies hatch and crawl out of your open wound?”

“No, and neither have you. At least not the part about spider babies crawling out from a bite—that’s urban legend.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Chet says. “Spiders are evil little fuckers. Do you really want to take that chance?”

Laughter erupts from the deepest part of my belly. “Oh my God. You’re afraid of spiders?”

He breathes in and out, nostrils flaring. “You’re one to talk. At least there’s a name for my hang-up. Lots of people have arachnophobia. But chronic sympathy-puking for horses? That’s not even a thing.”

“Touché.” I stand up straight. “You got me there. Shall we climb back down?”

“Yeah,” Chet says.

We’re silent on the way down the ladder and out through the blue barn. But once we’re outside, I speak up. “Hey, could I have a couple of days off next week? River wants to take me backpacking.”

Chet shoves his hands into his pockets. “River wants . . . come again?”

“You know River, one of the landscaping guys? The good-looking one, with the amazing green eyes. He’s doing this two-day hike along Vallecito Creek Trail. I’d really love to go, if you can spare me.”

“Oh. Um, sure. Of course.” Chet’s chin dips and rises in one abrupt movement.

“Awesome. Thank you.”

I spin on my heel, feeling Chet watching me as I walk away.

I’d give anything to know what he’s thinking.

***

Hours later, after a six-minute hot shower (the longest I can hope for with my trailer’s hot water heater), I pour myself a glass of wine and, feet curled beneath me, sit on my two-cushion couch by the window. Then I call Brontë.

She answers after several rings. There’s music and chatter in the background. “Hi!” she yells into her phone. “Everything okay?”

“More or less,” I say. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“No, no—just out for drinks with the gang from work.”

“Sounds fun. I’ll let you go.”

“You sure?” Brontë asks. “Cuz I could move to a quieter spot, like outside, or to a toilet stall—”

“That’s not necessary. We can talk later.”

“Alright,” she says. “But hey, call me tomorrow. So you can spill the tea about Chet and Birdy’s breakup.”

Suddenly, there’s an uneasy sensation in my chest. Like my heart’s being tickled. And I hate being tickled. “Chet and Birdy broke up?”

“You haven’t heard?” Brontë clicks her tongue. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, but it’s all over Instagram.”