Jennifer tips her head to one side. “Anyway, where’s the extra TP?”

“There’s no extra TP. That should have been enough TP for several book clubs.”

“Seriously?” She raises two perfectly arched eyebrows.

“Seriously. And no one can use the head now. There’s no way I can get that thing unclogged without a snake or a pump.”

Jennifer makes a noise I’d translate as “harumph” and turns to join the other book-clubbers in the bow. I step away from the center console helm, intending to see how much damage she’s done to my head, but before I even reach the cabin door, I hear a sharp ziiiippp, followed by yapping and scrabbling. I turn to see her freeing the doglet for a putter around her feet.

“Watch him,” I say sharply. “I’m not going in the lake after him.”

“Oh, is that service extra?” she snaps back. “Like toilet paper?”

I swallow my urge to engage, and go belowdecks. I take one look at the contents of the head—and oh, fuck, it definitely needs to be pumped. And is that—

Oh, no, she didn’t.

Menstrual pad.

I rub my hand, hard, over my forehead, hoping the pad will vanish, but no such luck. Then, gingerly, I reach in and extract it with two fingers and drop it in the trash.

I wash my hands, frowning at myself in the mirror.

This trip is a total failure. There’s no way to sugarcoat it.

And there’s definitely no way to stave off the inevitable rotten reviews.

How was I supposed to know that I’d need more than two bottles of wine?

Or more than a small bowl of jelly beans and a big bag of Doritos? My clients finished both in thirty minutes and asked me where the refills were. One of them asked if I had any healthy snacks. Another wanted to know if I had sparkling water. I had to choke down the urge to point out the sun reflecting off the lake. Sparkling! Water!

Also, they hate the book, which is by some guy named Nicholas Sparks.

(I would not have chosen a book by a guy whose last name was clearly made up.)

The book choice is not my problem, but I feel like it’s making the situation more dire. As are the mosquitoes—which have been worse in our area in the last few years.

I forgot to bring the nice-smelling bug wipes my brother’s girlfriend bought for this occasion. Also, the sunscreen—Jennifer’s nose is a scary shade of pink, and even with a couple of months of base tan on my white-boy skin, I’m probably hurting too.

I go back to the helm.

The women—my clients—are now talking about me in whispers. Which, unfortunately, I can hear perfectly because of the weird acoustics of the boat on water.

“He was engaged to Zoë Milano, wasn’t he?”