The bartender chooses this moment to clear away the chili fries and nudges his head in Bryce’s direction with a scornful look before addressing me.
“Dudes best learn to keep their hands to themselves, if you know what I mean. I told him he’s lucky he’s still got the ability to make babies.”
Something catches my eye as the bartender goes to wipe the surface in front of me, and I reach out to peel a damp sheet of paper from the bartop. It’s a flyer for the same online Petfluencer Challenge I’ve been participating in for the past month. What are the odds?
“What’s that?” Bryce asks.
“It’s a flyer for that challenge I told you about. The pet influencer one?”
“Oh, right. That stupid masterclass for crazy cat ladies.” Bryce rolls his eyes. Now I’m tempted to deck him.
Months ago, long before the situation blew up about the shelter, I’d tried to get Bryce interested in learning about influencer marketing. His response? Ranting publicly on social media about “all the greedy freeloaders.”
Sales on our pet supplies’ website have been plummeting. We almost lost one of our top pet food vendors when Bryce mocked their spokesdog—the same spokesdog that’s serving as a moderator for the Petfluencer Challenge.
But there’s no point in trying to reason with Bryce now. I close my eyes, inhale and exhale deeply, then roll my neck to release some of the tension from my long drive.
“Listen, Hudson, I know what you’re thinking,” Bryce asserts. “But quit being such a worrywart. That whole influencer thing’s going to blow over. And nobody cares about a few dogs in a Podunk town shelter. Wait till we start getting press on the new pet clothing line I just launched. The leeches will be begging us for free samples again, and nobody’s going to be talking about that stupid shelter anymore.”
“Clothing line?” I ask. Last time I checked, we’d backed off from manufacturing. Too much risk. “Who approved that?”
“Nobody. I don’t need to get approval at my own company. Manufacturing is MY area, if you recall. Pet owners go gaga for that shit. Speaking of which, how’s your little kitty cat?”
Bryce asks this question with all the condescension a man who’s just been decked by a tiny girl can muster.
“Oliver isn’t my cat. I’m just watching him for a friend,” I state blankly.
“Right.” Bryce snorts. “She’s gone, dude. You are such an idiot.”
I hate that he has a point. I should have seen the red flags sooner with Ashley.
Ashley works for the company we use for managing and staging our properties. She was living at a hotel in Seattle while getting one of our projects ready to show. What I’d thought might be a perfect, short-term, ‘friends with benefits’ situation turned into her showing up at my apartment with a suitcase and a cat carrier the morning after an awkwardly aborted one-night stand.
When I’d politely informed her that we were not, in fact, in a relationship—nor was I interested in cohabitation—she had freed the portly, elderly Persian cat from his cage.
“How can you say this, Hudson! We have a cat together!”
She’d then placed her hands over the cat’s ears while she played her ace. “I can’t take him back to the shelter. They said they’d put him down.”
The cat, no doubt sensing imminent doom, had promptly commenced hacking and hawking until he regurgitated a golf ball-size hairball on my white carpet.
At least he’d looked genuinely remorseful about it afterward.
In the end, I’d sent Ashley packing but agreed to keep the cat until she found a more permanent place to live.
“Ashley will come get Oliver when her schedule settles down,” I tell Bryce.
In the meantime, it hasn’t been so bad for me. Oliver and I have an understanding. He lets me take photos of him for the pet influencer challenge where I’m learning a lot, and I let him stay with me. Occasionally, he gets caviar. He hasn’t had any more issues with hairballs since I got him on a healthy diet and regular grooming schedule.
“Sure, sure.” Bryce rolls his eyes and presses the sweating cup back against his jaw.
I notice he’s still got his wedding ring on. Maybe that’s a good thing. Grief about his recent divorce is the angle we’re going with in the press release, apologizing for all the tweets. I wonder if anyone will buy it.
“Are you getting back together with your ex, or are you planning to keep that thing on forever to scare away your overeager suitors?” I ask, pointing at the ring.
“Stupid ring. It won’t come off!” he complains.
I’m willing to bet that the girl he’d hit on saw the ring too. What a tool. Good for her for punching him. I’d like to shake her hand.
