Page 49 of Hate You Later
I am sorry about your bad day though, Cookie. I’m assuming this is some kind of a business problem? Maybe I can help?
There he goes, offering business advice again.
Really, Oliver? Do you have an MBA from the Cat Fancier’sAssociation? Are you going to catsplain the solution to us?
Very funny, Cookie. We both know it’s not actually Oliver doing the typing here.
My heart thumps in my chest and I sit up straighter. Touché! Bluff called!
Well, well, well. Aren’t you afraid we’ll get kicked out of the challenge if we break the rules?
Some rules are meant to be broken,he types.
You certainly don’t beat around the bush!I respond.
Perhaps I’m barking up the wrong tree, Cookie, butI had the impression you enjoyed playing with fire.
Careful what you wish for.
Seeing is believing. Put your money where your mouth is. Shall we tempt fate and meet at last?he types.
Holy shit! What’s happening here? Is he for real? My eyes bug out rereading that last message again and again as my fingers hover over the keyboard. I look down at my nearly empty third cup. Does he actually want to meet up?
Maybe a hookup isn’t such a bad idea. Maybe it’s the perfect way to blow off steam.
But no. No freaking way. Even if I had my car, I’m not in any condition to drive. In my pajamas. With a towel on my head. Nope-a-roony. I’m not going anywhere. Not even to meet up with Oliver’s owner. Who I’m just dying to meet, aren’t I? How many times have I fantasized what he might look like?
At this point, I’m just drawing a blank. His face is a big old blank for me. I’d walk into The Onion—in my imagination it was always The Onion—and then what?
How would we even know each other? Would we need to bring our pets along to recognize each other? No. That would be silly. I am just being silly. Neither of us are dragging our pets to a bar.
Oliver?I type, returning to the ruse.Maybe we should tell each other our humans’ names before we consider meeting in person? I’ll spill the beans if you will.
It occurs to me that Oliver could be a real creep. He could be catfishing me. What if he is a serial killer? I have no way of knowing he isn’t a serial killer.
My fingers are poised and ready to Google whatever name he feeds me. I click over to the second browser tab. It’s still full of images from the last name search I ran. Hudson Holm. Grrrr.
I fight the urge to get out a sharpie and scribble a mustache on him directly on the screen. I scroll slowly down the page. Nope. No shirtless photos. Pity.
Sorry, Cookie. I’m just yanking your chain. Though to be perfectly honest, you are growing on me.
You may eat those words.
I breathe a sigh of relief, followed by a sharp stab of disappointment.
The three dots come and go again. Finally, a message appears.
Real talk, Cookie. Can you just look away for a moment and show a message to your owner?
Are you pulling my leg, Oliver?
Hand her the phone, Cookie. THIS MESSAGE IS
FOR COOKIE’S HUMAN’S EYES ONLY!
.
.
