Read When Libby Met the Fairies and her Whole Life Went Fae for Free Online

dinner or had saved it up until he’d gotten home. She was hoping the latter. She was also hoping that he’d had enough sense to take a taxi.
    “Ribby?”
    “Yes, Paul.”
    “I’m going to bed.”
    “Yeah, that would probably be a good idea.”
    “I love you Ribby.” Giggle. “I said ‘Ribby.’ That makes me . . . Rastro . . . I ruv roo, Ribby!”
    “’Night, Paul.”
    She put the phone down.
    Tyler was standing in the living room doorway, looking at her curiously.
    “I don’t suppose you brought sheets,” Libby said.
    “Nah, that’s okay, Aunt Libby. I don’t need them.”
    She sighed. He was missing the point, of course. This wasn’t about Tyler’s comfort. It was about protecting Libby’s almost-new sofa. But to explain the point, she’d have to bring up the issue of how often he bathed.
    “I have some twin bedding somewhere. It will have to do. But it’s your job to put the sheets on the couch every night before you go to bed, and take them off when you get up, so that the couch is a couch again.” Libby stood up.
    “Sure thing.”
    At least having a couple of overgrown kids to look after gave her something to do. Silver lining. Of sorts.

7
     
    Wallace and Libby had started dating in high school. That’s also when he started cheating. And she knew just why she immediately forgave him for it. Because no matter what you might think, fundamentally, they were solid. What they had was solid. And no way was she going to let anything interfere with that.
    His dad owned a car dealership. A big one on West Ridge Road, with a huge showroom that smelled like rubbing compound and that was ringed by cubicles where sales staff sit people down in molded plastic chairs and write out deals, and out front the lot with its flags and balloons and an SUV perched crazily on the slanted roof of a huge fake dog house. The doghouse has been there forever, since an ad campaign in the ‘80s, tag line “Drive your way out of the doghouse in a brand new Ford!” With lots of background woofing, you remember probably how big woofing was in the ‘80s, and group photos of people—really the dealership staff and their families—pumping their fists, pretending they were going nuts, they loved their cars so much. During basketball games, kids would woof at Wallace whenever he was out on the court—he didn’t start but was a good enough player to get a fair amount of game time—and he loved it. You could see his face color up and his moves get more intense when he heard the kids start to woof.
    And it’s not like he cheated on her constantly. As far as Libby knew, he only did it three or four times. And she always knew in her heart of hearts that the other women weren’t really a threat. And they weren’t. Even the last one, it wasn’t she who broke up the marriage. Wallace was restless for other reasons, career reasons . . . he’d sold off his vending business and was back at the dealership, and he wasn’t happy there. So the affair—it wasn’t the problem. It was a symptom.
     
    ♦ ♦ ♦
     
    March was almost over.
    She’d stopped walking the land. She told herself she didn’t need to. She’d forgotten about the hallucination thing, pretty much. Anyway, she was busy with the next issue of Skin Tones .
    Skin Tones was an amazing newsletter. The concept was totally Paul’s: dedicate a newsletter to people who had been helped by Cal4’s research. Inspiring stories. Imagine a story about, say, a little boy who could finally swim in the family pool without triggering a full-body eczema outbreak. That’s the kind of thing they published. It went to the trade, mostly—skin products wholesalers and distributors, hospitals, dermatologists, companies who licensed Cal4 research. But they also sent copies to consumer publications and health news editors, and sometimes editors used bits of Libby’s articles for their stories.
    That’s what made Skin Tones such a brilliant idea. It wasn’t promotional, at all.