Page 42 of Hate You Later
I burst through the door in a crouched stance, scanning for the dog. The clothing rack is knocked over. A tower of stacked pet treat boxes has toppled over. There’s a ceramic dog bowl in pieces on the floor.
Cookie is still exactly where I left her—gated in behind the counter. She’s trembling, crouching in the farthest corner of the small space. Her tail is between her legs, and it’s apparent she’s peed herself. She doesn’t seem hurt. Just terrified and possibly embarrassed about the pee. She is staring up at the counter above her, whimpering faintly.
I follow her gaze to the source of the problem. The chubby tomcat leaps up onto the counter and greedily gobbles up some of the sample treats I always keep there. He pauses warily for a moment when he sees me, as if weighing his options, then decides I’m not enough of a threat to deter him from his feast.
“Nice kitty,” I say, slowly easing myself around to the front of the counter. It isn’t that I don’t like cats. I just don’t understand them like I understand dogs. Cats are so unpredictable.
I take a step toward him and lay a hand on the counter. He doesn’t seem fazed. Good. This is good. I am almost close enough to pet him. Would he let me pick him up? What am I going to do with him?
I try to remember what the pet rescue people always say about cats. You’re supposed to throw a towel over their head? Or was it just the body and not the head? I glance around. I don’t have a towel anyway. Maybe I could take off my shirt? I quickly dismiss this idea. I’m not about to man the shop wearing only a bra.
Her courage bolstered by my presence, Cookie chooses this moment to bark. Before I can even figure out what is happening, the cat is airborne. A brown ball of fur launches toward me, claws out, scrambling for traction.
White-hot pain grips me as the claws graze the flesh of my right hand. The cat is sailing through the air and out the door before I can take another breath.
“Mothereffingeffer! Fuck! Shit! Damn!” I yell. My hand feels far worse than it looks, but with this being a stray, I’m going to have to clean it off thoroughly. And my first aid kit is in the car.
Five minutes ago, I was thinking that this was a pretty shitty day. I hadn’t even been bleeding then. What a fool the five-minutes-ago version of me was.
This calls for a plan. I take a deep breath, leaning into my well-developed ability to navigate a crisis. And as crises went, this isn’t the worst, right? Nothing truly tragic has happened. Just a little pee and blood and broken glass. I can handle it. No problem. Having a plan of action always calms me in a crisis.
Step One:Clean hand in bathroom. Temporarily bandage with toilet paper.
Step Two:Sweep up broken glass.
Step Three:Walk Cookie to car. Get first aid kit.
My phone dings with a notification. Maybe Kenna is back? Using my uninjured hand, I flip the phone over.
It’s from Oliver.
You haven’t posted anything today. Were you going to do the cliché prompt today?
Shit. I had totally forgotten to post. We’re supposed to choose a common phrase or a cliché and use it as inspo.
Step Four:Cliché prompt?
THWOMP! Something explodes in the back. The microwave comes to an abrupt stop, beeping forlornly. I lean over and peek through the doorway.
The microwave is flashing feebly in the dark, a beacon of hopelessness. I can just make out the worm-like noodles plastered to the steamy interior.
No soup for you, Georgia!
Step Five:Deal with noodle-pocalypse.
I wash and wrap my hand in toilet paper. Before leading Cookie out of the shop, I tape a note to the door saying that I’ll be back in ten minutes.
Cookie tugs me toward the grassy, town square park. “Nope. Sorry girl. We’re going to the car first. Do you not even see the state of me?” We cut through the alley to the lot behind the building where I usually park.
Except something is extremely wrong. The unicorn isn’t where I’d left it. My Prius has simply vanished. I can’t believe it. First my designs, and now someone has stolen the unicorn? Why would anyone want to steal a ten-year-old Prius? It’s not exactly a Mercedes. It’s an old car. Its plates aren’t even current.
The plates.
I’d been so busy worrying about everything else that I’d let almost a full year go by since the tags expired. Ruefully, I remember the “fix it” ticket that I shoved in the glove compartment three months ago. The same week I’d taken out the mortgage, so I’d been distracted.
The police officerhadwarned me that normally he’d tow a car with plates that far out of date.
I smack my forehead with my injured hand and wince. The toilet paper from my back-office bandage is already starting to disintegrate. Blinking back tears, I sink to the curb and sit there for a moment, kicking crumbs of asphalt with the pointy toe of my boot.
