Page 2 of The F*ck-It List

“Honey Bea,” they say gently. “I love you. You know this, but I’m going to have to be a little tough on you now. You ready?”

I shuffle a little, preparing myself for Cas’s signature bluntness. This, of course, jostles Heathcliff on my shoulder, making him meow angrily. Taking one large slurp of my drink, made to perfection, I nod at Cas to continue.

“Babe, you need to do something with your life. You’ve got to shake things up.” When I can only frown, they continue, “You hate your job, I’m your only real friend, and, let’s face it, I don’t think London is really your vibe.”

My jaw drops and my brow scrunches in indignation. Cas holds their hand up to stop whatever protests hover on the tip of my tongue.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” they challenge.

I shoot the rest of my drink, wincing at the sickly sweetness as it goes down. “I can’t,” I croak. “Work is the worst. I had to fire Brian today.” I pout.

“Oh no! Not Brian!” Cas cries. Then after a beat asks, “Who’s Brian?”

“He’s the cutest, most adorable older guy in my team. He loves baking, we exchange recipes, and he’s like five years from retirement, but they told me he had to go. He’s good at his job but he was struggling with the new systems we upgraded to, and it just put him too far behind. They weren’t interested in working with him anymore. Thirty years at the company and today I told him not to bother coming in on Monday.”

“Your bosses are dicks.”

“Cheers to that.” I offer up my glass and Cas picks up theirs to clink them together before standing and heading to my kitchen to pour us another.

“And how many panic attacks have you had at work this week?” They raise an accusing brow at me.

I don’t answer, staring at my lap instead, refusing to make eye contact. Cas doesn’t need to know I’ve locked myself in the bathroom cubicle twice this week so I could hyperventilate in peace.

“Uh huh,” they sound out, like I’ve answered definitively. Coming back over and handing me another glowingly pink drink, Cas rests a hand on my leg as they sit. “Bea, my love, my heart, my sweet, you know I love you, but I don’t think you’re happy here and maybe now is the time to shake shit up.”

“I don’t know,” I mumble, scrunching my face in uncertainty. “I’m not really a risk taker.”

“What?” Cas acts shocked. “You?” I glare at them, and they smile. “Babe, you never do anything for yourself. What’s the use of being fucking loaded and never spending money?”

“Cas,” I whine, feeling the bubble of discomfort whenever the mention of money comes up.

Cas holds up their hand to stop me, their voice going serious. “Your grandmother left you your inheritance for you to use it. Just because your mother is salty about it, doesn’t mean you should leave it there doing nothing just so you don’t feel guilty.”

“I bought this place,” I argue, gesturing around to my small, one bed apartment. But it’s fruitless because even though I could have afforded something bigger and more central, I still sometimes feel I should have gone for a studio and saved more money.

“And you spend all your time here when you should be off exploring the world and trying new things. Tell me, in a perfect world, what would you want to be doing and where?”

I think on it for a moment, slurping my drink obnoxiously loud. “I do always dream about opening a café, somewhere pretty. In the country maybe.” I take another sip and shrug off my own words. “But that’s, like, for when I retire or something.”

“Babe,” Cas groans, throwing their head back. “Retiring is for golf and complaining about youths, not starting a business, you psychopath.”

Amusement stretches my lips by the rim of my glass. “I work hard now, so I can play hard then.”

“You’re thirty years old—”

“Don’t remind me.”

“—and you’re living an unfulfilledlife.”

“Harsh.”

“But true.” Cas necks back the dregs of their second drink. “Oh my God, I have a brilliant beyond brilliant idea.” Leaning forward, they open the drawer of my coffee table and rifle around until they pull out a notepad and a pen. “I’m making us another drink.” They turn to me and gesture for me to drink up. “And you’re going to start a Fuck-It list.”

“A what?” I freeze and the notepad slaps me in the chest from Cas throwing it my way before they take my now empty glass and trot back to the kitchen with extra pep in their step.

“A Fuck-It list, you know, a list of stuff you want to do.”

“You mean a bucket list?” I snort.