Page 43 of Hate You Later
How had this day degenerated so far so fast?
My cheeks burn with shame. Cookie sits down beside me, watching me anxiously. I lean into her, and she licks the tears right off my face. She’s still wearing her Boss Bitch tee.
“I’m sorry, Cookie,” I whisper. “This—all of this—is my own damn fault. And I’m going to fix it, all by myself. Because that’s what I do.” And then I get up.
Step Six:Figure out how to get car back.
I stop by the diner to borrow some Band-Aids, but of course, Kenna’s melodramatic Greek uncles want to make a fuss. Old Georgia wouldn’t have let them. I’d have made up an excuse about why I have to get right back to the shop and insist that I can bandage myself. But new Georgia sits on a chair in the alley outside the kitchen, allowing Nick to assess my wounds.
Stavros peeks his head out and then goes back inside to pack up a doggie bag of leftover grilled steak bits for Cookie.
As Nick rewashes and bandages my scratch, he regales me with tales of the legendary Athens Street cat colonies.
He applies enough betadine and antibiotic ointments to eradicate a pandemic.
“Thanks,” I say. “This is above and beyond, you know. I just needed a few Band-Aids.”
“No. Thank you for letting me,” Nick says, holding my good hand in his big, warm one. “Listen Georgia, you have to let people take care of you sometimes, and it’s our pleasure. Tell me. Are you eating enough?”
“I’m fine, Nick,” I assure him, but my stomach growls, giving me away.
“Stavros, make sure you pack up something for Georgia!” Nick yells into the kitchen, but he needn’t have bothered.
Stavros emerges with two bags—a sandwich and chips for me, and a bag of cut-up steak cubes for Cookie. She’s getting her sirloin after all. Oliver would appreciate that.
“You’re spoiling us!” I take the bags gratefully and thank them again. It isn’t actually so bad being taken care of. I’m just not used to it. A warning bell goes off in my head. I probably shouldn’t let myself get too used to it.
Finally, I take Cookie on the walk she’s been waiting for. We circle the square twice, then I sit on a bench near the fountain for a moment so I can scarf my sandwich. It’s close enough for me to keep an eye on the shop in case anyone shows up.
Cookie sits beside me, impatiently nudging the paper bag full of steak bits.
“You think that’s for you, huh?” I reach into the bag with my uninjured left hand to get a little cube of the meat for her. She impatiently slurps it out of my hand, not close to actually biting me, but making me jump, nonetheless.
“Hey! Don’t bite the hand that feeds you!” I say.
Light bulb moment. Don’t bite the hand that feeds you. This is my “cliché” shot. Easy-peasy for once.
I pull out my phone and open the camera. I gingerly dip my fingertips back into the bag of treats, then I cup a piece of meat in the palm of my left hand. Cookie is already salivating, and I’m ready to capture it.
“Wait!” I command, slowly unfolding my fingers to expose the treat.
Cookie stares walleyed at the morsel, drool trailing from the corners of her mouth. For once, she’s making it easy for me.
I snap a few shots and then finally release her when she starts to shake. Poor Cookie. I laugh as she gobbles the treat up, washing my whole palm clean with her tongue.
Relieved that I have this assignment in the bag, I post the photo to Cookie’s Instagram account. Then I copy the link and shoot it over to Oliver’s inbox.
Cookie nudges my sore hand, hoping for another treat.
“Noooo!!!!”
The phone slips out of my grasp in what feels like slow motion. It hits the edge of the fountain with an ominous, cracking sound before landing in the water.
Step Seven:Booze.
hudson
My phone pingswith missed calls all day long. I see flashes from Lilly, Walker, Jackson, and a local number I don’t recognize. Possibly the pet shelter? I’m so busy, I don’t have a spare moment to play the messages back. I keep getting pulled into one meeting after another.
