Size Matters (Handcuffs and Happily Ever Afters) by Robyn Peterman Page B

to the Bahamas tomorrow. I’ve never been to the Bahamas! Do you hear me, Kristy? Never. Been. To. The. Bahamas. I will not let those swamp-ass lesbians send my man to jail. I’m all pasty and I need to get some Caribbean sun. I mean, my God, they’re crying.”
    He dropped to the ground in front of me and buried his face in my stomach. I was so confused, I was dizzy. “Mrs. C. and Edith are crying?” I tried to peel Short Fat Steve off me, but he was clamped on tight. Although, I must admit, an evil joy flitted through my mind as I pictured Big Tall Steve shooting pepper spray into the old hags’ eyes. I definitely had a suite in hell waiting for me when I died.
    “No, they’re not crying,” he said into my tummy, tickling me. “They made the big burly construction guys cry.”
    “What big burly . . .” I turned my head and saw them . . . three huge men, standing in front of A Stitch in Time, sobbing. Holding each other and sobbing. WTF? “What did they do?”
    “It was just awful, like Taylor Swift singing live. Awful,” he whimpered, detaching himself from my body and pacing the sidewalk in front of me. I sucked my lower lip into my mouth to keep from giggling. When Short Fat Steve got going, he looked like a tattooed, pierced Weeble. “The poor guy had a wandering eye and they just kept screaming ‘look at me’ . . . over and over.”
    “Wait . . . what? They were hitting on Mrs. C and Edith?” I had entered an alternate universe and I wanted out. Why in the hell would big hunky construction guys hit on those two?
    “Oh God, no,” he gasped, wringing his hands. “The poor guy’s eyeball doesn’t shoot straight, and instead of ignoring it, like any polite human being would do, those rug munchers made him cry.”
    “Holy hell,” I muttered, grabbing Short Steve by the shoulders so he would quit moving. His flair for the dramatic was killing me. “Why were construction workers in a knitting shop?”
    “Kristy,” Steve hissed, “that’s sexist. There is no reason big boys can’t knit.”
    “Or cry,” I mumbled because I couldn’t help myself.
    “This is not the time for random pop-culture references to obscure songs.”
    “I’m sorry, you’re right,” I said, glancing over at the blubbering men. “So they’re . . . um, customers?”
    “No, they’re not customers,” he shouted. “They’re construction guys.”
    “Now who’s being sexist?” I asked, raising my eyebrow.
    “I am not sexist,” he informed me. “I’m gay. Homosexual people cannot be sexist. Sexy? Yes. Sexist? No.”
    “I’m not going to touch that, but I’d like to point out that you got the word sex into that sentence five times.”
    “Well, color me impressed with myself,” he giggled.
    “Oookay, they’re not customers. They didn’t hit on the lesbians, yet they’re sobbing on the sidewalk in front of my store . . . What gives?”
    “They start work tomorrow and they were checking out the premises,” he said, smoothing out my shirt, which he had wrinkled when he was buried in it.
    “Work on what?”
    “Ohh, snookie bottom, you probably don’t know what I’m talking about,” he said as his own eyes filled with tears. I knew this had something to do with my grandma. Every time either Steve brought her up, they cried.
    “Steve, I’ve had a really long and horrific week, so could you get to the point of all this? Quickly?”
    “Yes, yes, of course,” he said, wiping his eyes on my shirt, the shirt he’d just de-wrinkled. “Before your grandma died, Lutheran God bless her soul, she scheduled work on the building. New roof, new electric, some plumbing issues . . . So we all knew the building would be closed for two weeks and that’s why Steve and I are going to the Bahamas. And now those nasty bitches made the guys cry and the boys said they wouldn’t go back in there until the dykes left.”
    “Did they actually say dykes ?” I asked.
    “Um, no,” Steve admitted. “I just added that