And now here she is again, working another “I told you so” into our conversation disguised as a monthly check-up.

“You know, Meemaw, as much as I value preventive care, people are only supposed to have check-ups once a year. Twice at most. Especially if they’re fit as a fiddle like you.”

“The only reason I bring it up is because you and Waylon have been doing so good together,” Meemaw continues as if she didn’t hear a word I said. “I know you didn’t believe it was going to work out when he first brought you here….”

“Threatened and blackmailed me, then refused to let me leave,” I edit.

Though I shouldn’t have bothered. Of course, Meemaw keeps going like a train that won’t stop. “But look at you now. I was just saying to Maybelline the other day while she was doing my hair that you two are getting on like one of those interracial romance movies they’re always playing on Netflix at Christmas—except with more fucking—way, way more fucking. You two have been going at it like rabbits ever since he moved you into that house.”

Meemaw shakes her head like she just can’t believe it. “I mean, there were those handcuffs and rope Lucinda found when she cleaned your house last September. And Crazytown was telling me the other day that Waylon takes a break at work at least twice a week to ‘go see you for lunch.’”

My cheeks burn as she puts air quotes around “go see you at lunch.”

I’ve gotten a lot better about not caring so much about what people think of me or having to be perfect. But living in Angel Pond has taken some adjustment.

The culture here makes the Wilmington St. Joseph ER seem like a stuffy library. There’s not a lot of judgment, considering that most of the men are involved in criminal activities, and most of the women started off at the compound as either sex workers or groupies. But there’s also zero discretion. So the one time I forgot to pre-clean for Lucinda before heading off to work at my clinic behind the house, the story of what she found in our bedroom spread like wildfire around town.

“Is there a point to all these observations?” I ask, picking up her manilla file to mark her down for another clean check-up.

Meemaw cranes her head as I walk over to the filing cabinets Waylon got me last month to drop in her folder.