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I’m packing an overnight bag when there’s a knock on my bedroom door. “Come in!” I call out as I stuff in a pair of pajamas.
Hattie pops her head in. “There’s a pile of photo albums on the living room floor. Please tell me you didn’t have to sit with Mom and listen to a story that went with every single photo.”
“Uh no. I redirected us to the kitchen to make dinner before that could happen.”
She closes the door behind her and drops into my computer chair. “Oh phew. I thought you’d gotten sucked in and I wasn’t here to save you, and then I would have felt bad. Are you going somewhere?”
I don’t mind going through old photo albums. In fact, it’s more likely to be me pulling them off the shelves, but I leave that thought alone and explain that I’m staying another night at a client’s house.
“Is this the client with the hottie owner?”
“The hottie son, yes.”
“Is he staying over, too?”
“No, he’s not.” At least not that I’m aware. My heart leaps around in my chest at the possibility, though. So silly. I’m clearly holding on to his offhand comment about dinner too tightly.
“I’m going for drinks with some friends from school tonight. You can come with if you want.” Hattie grabs one of my cat stress balls and tosses it from one hand to the other.
“I need to do some training with Prince Francis tonight, but thanks for the invitation.” I add an outfit for tomorrow to my bag, and my mini handheld steamer.
Hattie spins around once in my chair. “Can I say something?”
“Sure?” I drag out the word, uncertain of her tone.
“I know you love your job, Kitty, but sometimes I wonder if maybe you love it too much.”
I stop what I’m doing and give her my full attention. “How do you mean?”
She taps on the arm of the chair. “You’re blowing me off to hang out with a cat.”
“I’m being paid to take care of someone’s pet.” There’s a difference. Also, I seem to have a crush on the son of the owner.
“Which I understand, but you can’t have one quick drink with me and some friends? Do something social? Go out and see other human beings close to your own age and not someone’s grandmother who basically wants your help, so they have someone to talk to for a couple of hours?” She raises a hand when I start to protest. “I’m not saying you shouldn’t take your job seriously, or that there isn’t merit in you being a friendly face for elderly cat owners, but sometimes I think, particularly in situations such as these, your job is kind of a convenient excuse not to come out.”
“I’m not the biggest fan of crowds.” I’m making another excuse, and I’m not sure why. I feel safest online, being the Kitty Whisperer with followers who post heart eyes. In real life, there are conversations, and while I love what I do, not everyone thinks cat sitting is a real job. So when someone dismisses me or thinks what I do is “cute,” I’m compelled to defend my career. And that often leads to feeling insecure. The last time I went out with Hattie was to some house party. I ended up in a group of people I didn’t know, and when I told them what I did for a living, they thought it was a joke. They weren’t my sister’s actual friends, but it still wasn’t my favorite night, and I would like to avoid a repeat.
“It’s a small group at a pub. You’ve met most of them before. I’m not saying you have to come tonight, but you’re allowed to have a social life. I know groups can make you nervous, but sometimes it’s good to step outside of our comfort zone, don’t you think?”
I bite the inside of my cheek. Today I’d already been thinking about how my life is on pause. Maybe she’s right. Maybe this is a good way to hit the Play button. And if I’ve already met these people, it’s not too far outside my comfort zone. “Okay. I’ll come for a drink.”
“Yay! I promise you won’t regret it!” She pushes out of the chair and wraps her arms around me. “Let’s pick an outfit!”
I run my hands over my hips. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”
Hattie gives me a look. “This is fine for old people with vision problems. Not so much for the pub.”
Half an hour later I’m sandwiched between my sister and one of her classmates. Everyone is familiar except the guy I’m sitting next to, Hattie’s classmate named Bryce. His hair has a perfect swoop that reminds me of boy bands and ski jumps. It’s also very blond, and so are his eyebrows. He looks sort of like a cross between a Disney character and a cartoon superhero. He’s also very, very chatty.
