Now I had one of those awkward pill lumps going on that wasn’t painful, but it was weird, so I nabbed what was left of my cup of coffee and almost puked when I realized it was cold as I drank it down.
Yeah, I hated cold coffee, and those iced drinks should be banned. Who in their right mind drank coffee milkshakes?
“Your wife’s a drama queen,” Tabby snickered to Raoul, who’d joined us at the entrance to the kitchen now.
“Don’t I know it,” he whispered, checking around us for something. “She made me leave our bedroom at three o’clock this morning because she needed to fart. Apparently, being pregnant makes it worse, and she couldn’t do it while I was there.”
“She made you leave the bedroom in the middle of the night so she could toot?” Tabby asked, saying the words slowly. “I’ve got to say, I can’t do it in front of Dave, but I don’t think I’d have made him leave the room while I was pregnant with Sheena.”
Leaning in closer to us, he whispered again, “She needed to pee badly, too, so she said she was afraid that if she let one go, the other one would follow. I offered to help her to the bathroom, but she said no because the two were blocking the movement of each other, and adding gravity in would cause an accident.”
In a way, this made sense to me. “So, it’s like when you’ve got air in the pipe to a faucet? You get like water spraying everywhere or a huge noisy delay when you turn the tap on.”
Nodding at me, he continued, “Yeah, if you were to take the faucet off so it was just the pipe, the air would come out, but the water would spray everywhere with it.”
Groaning, Tabby pinched the bridge of her nose. “Can we just get to the point? Did she pee-pee the bed, yes or no?”
“No, I did not make sissy on the bed,” Rose snapped, appearing from behind her husband. “I did a delicate toot,”—Raoul snorted and looked at her in disbelief—“and got up to make tinkle in the appropriate receptacle.”
More facts spewed out of me before I could stop them. “The human body produces two liters—or seventy fluid ounces—of urine a day on average. If your bladder was the size of a raisin, you’d need to sit on a toilet all day long because it would fill up every thirty seconds.”
Joining us, Garrett leaned one hip against the counter beside me. “Where do you get all of this information from, pretty girl?”
“Technically, it finds me. I open up the internet, and boom, useless facts. But the urine thing was something my biology teacher told us about one day. Unfortunately, he did it as he slowly poured seventy fluid ounces of water into a big beaker while I was praying for my own bladder not to explode. That’s probably why I remember it.”
There was silence, but then Raoul asked, “How much urine can the average bladder hold?”
Seeing as how I’d almost peed my pants during my biology teacher’s show and tell, this was another thing I remembered him saying. “About sixteen ounces.”
“I once went twenty-six hours without peeing,” Tabby announced proudly. “It was while I was moving here, and I didn’t trust any of the rest stops. I don’t need some dude sticking his dick through a glory hole while I’m trying to pee.” Unfortunately, everyone had stopped working just as she said this, so they all heard her. Looking around the room with her eyebrows raised, she asked, “What?”
“Are we getting cake and creamed potatoes or not?” Rose suddenly snapped, throwing her arms in the air.
“I call them mashed potatoes, but sure,” Tabby shrugged, pointing toward the door.
Following slowly behind them, I winced when I felt a slight sluggish feeling starting to take over my body. The painkillers were kicking in, which meant I was either going to start talking like a dickhead, eating everything in sight, or both of those things if I was unlucky.
And I was headed to the store where I’d be surrounded by people and food.
Fucking hell!
Standing back, Rose tapped her fingernail on the counter as we both looked down at our bowls. “What about if we added salsa on top of it?”
“Pfffbt, amateur,” I scoffed, heading back to the fridge. “Salsa’s too harsh for that. It’ll clash with the cake and icing. You want something more gentle, like guacamole.”
Her eyes dropped to the huge tub in my hand that we’d picked up from the sweet family who made fresh Mexican produce in town.
Their salsa was so spicy it melted your tastebuds, but lord, it was amazing. And their tortillas were soft and didn’t get stuck in your throat like a lot of the shop-bought ones did back home. Their spices were also like nothing I’d ever tasted. And don’t even get me started on their hard taco shells.