Page 17 of Hate You Later
georgia
I sinkinto my overstuffed couch with a mug of SpaghettiOs, a remote control, and a much-loved quilt emblazoned with stars and dogs. The shop had a really good day today. Double my usual sales.
But even if I have those s of sales for the rest of September, it still isn’t going to be enough. I’m dubious about the masquerade. If push comes to shove, I’ll just have to sell my car. It will make it hard to get to work, but I’ll figure something out. Too bad I can’t take Cookie on my bike. Or maybe I sell the house and rent something closer to the shop.
The thought of selling the house hurts my heart. I feel a stab of real, physical pain. It’s the only real home I’ve ever known. Prior to being adopted at fifteen, my entire childhood was a study in impermanence. A half dozen foster homes, some decent but short-lived. Some were not so decent. I learned to make do. There was one short stint with a bio aunt, until she got deported. She hasn’t stayed in touch.
Kenna, who was adopted at birth, has often asked me what I recall about my birth mom. But the truth is, not much. I can barely recall living with her before she and Xander’s dad died on his motorcycle.
What I can recall is my anxiety when nobody came home that night, or the next day. I was five years old, and I’d never been left alone with my infant brother for that long before. I had no idea what to do. I warmed milk in the microwave to make him a bottle when we ran out of formula. I’d eaten my cereal dry to make the milk last.
This isn’t a memory I like to dwell on. I pull the quilt up and around my shoulders and conjure a different flashback. Choosing fabrics with my mom. Cutting out the stars and dogs. She’d signed us both up for a quilting class, and it really wasn’t her thing, or mine, at the time. But she’d insisted we stick with it, leaving the design to me, as well as a fair amount of the stitching. It was how I learned how to sew. Wrapped up in the quilt, I can almost still feel her presence. Almost. Even after two years, I miss her so tangibly.
I shovel pasta in my mouth, pausing to rewatch Xander’s TikTok transformation of the stray dog from earlier today.
The rescue peekapoo, whom we all agreed to call Mr. Miyagi, had indeed had an adorable underbite. Xander was able to salvage enough long fur at the top of Mr. Miyagi’s head to give him a canine man bun. That little dog hadownedthe karate suit. We’d uploaded the photos on Petfinder immediately, and by the end of the day, there were already fourteen applications from families wanting to adopt him.
This is such a win. This is what makes it all worth it.
Cookie curls up beside me as I scroll through some of her photos, cropping and adding filters. I select a shot of her with her head sticking out the car window, tongue out and cheeks flapping in the wind, and add a funny caption: “Good girls go to heaven, bad girls go everywhere.”
“Okay, Cookie, let’s see what Oliver has to say about that,” I say before checking my messages in the challenge portal. There’s one new message in my inbox.
I hope you’re behaving yourself, Cookie. Doing anything special tonight? It’s been a quiet day here. My flatmate was out for several hours, leaving me to my own devices. I took the opportunity of making a detailed list of all shelves that need dusting, clothes that need ironing, and silver that needs polishing. The bachelor pad is in quite the unacceptable state. My human’s standards are slipping.
Silver that needs polishing? What a little weirdo.
I’m surprised he doesn’t polish the silver with you, Furball.
I start to reply in the messaging center, but before I can hit send, a message pops up inviting me to chat live. Apparently, Oliver is online too.
Eight o’clock on a Saturday night. Interesting. I guess we’re both dateless losers. I smile.
Good evening, Cookie! I’m surprised to catch you at home. Have you been naughty again? Are you grounded?
Who says I’m not going out, Oliver? It’s only 8 p.m. Last call’s not till 2 a.m.
Well, don’t let me keep you from your revelry, though I do worry about a vulnerable, young lady such as yourself finding herself alone at such an hour in a disreputable tavern.
Relax, I’m not going anywhere tonight, Furball. Last night was alate one. I’ve got a hot date with the sofa and a can of SpaghettiOs.
May as well play it safe and stick close to the truth, I figure. But it’s more my own truth than Cookie’s. In real life, Cookie is on a special diet, and SpaghettiOs would wreak havoc with her guts—certain doom for my new rug. Fortunately, my iron constitution is A-OK with the Os. I scoop around the tiny frankfurters, saving them for last.
Do you really think that’s prudent, Cookie? I’m concerned you aren’t getting proper nutrition. Surely, your owner has some sirloin somewhere for you.
Yeah, right. What’s cooking for you tonight, Oliver?
My owner is preparing us pan-seared salmon with a garlic and tomato reduction, blanched broccolini with sage brownbutter, and garlic mashed potatoes. Unfortunately, we have run out of caviar, but we are making do. Desperate times …
Wow, fancy-pants!
Cookie, please tell me you are not eating your meal straight out of the tin again.
Guiltily, I glance down at my favorite oversize coffee/soup/pasta mug. Ridiculous. Of course I wasn’t eating my food out of the tin.
No, silly, you can’t put the tin in the microwave.
The three dots indicating that Oliver is typing appear, then disappear, then appear again. In the meantime, I flip on the television and typePride and Prejudiceinto my streaming TV’s search box.
