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Yeah, I can gloss over all my other disappointments and make excuses for everyone else who has let me down today. But knowing that one of my closest friends completely forgot about me this year—on such a special birthday, too—that stings.
Right now, I feel anything but special.
After slathering my skin with lotion, I rise from the edge of my bed and drop the towel. I take in my reflection, examining what I’m workin’ with.
“I’m kind of cute…right?” I mumble to my furry companions. “Totally. Yeah, definitely…Um, I think.”
My hips are rounder than they were this time last year. I’ve gained a few pounds, for sure. But whatever. I have curves for days. And all the important stuff is stillrelativelytight and perky—for the most part—so I’m taking that as a good sign.
My blonde curls are a frizzy mess after my shower and without makeup on, I’d probably get carded at the liquor store. But what bothers me most is the flatness in my blue eyes tonight.
As much as it goes against my usual happy-go-lucky philosophy, the truth is, tonight, I’m sad. And I don’t like it.
“Itcouldbe worse,” I tell the cats who are now sprawled on my comforter. “I mean—I once heard this story about some poor woman who discovered a gray hair in her pubesright beforeshe turned the big three-oh.” I whisper, feeling a shudder of sympathy move through me. “Can you even imagine that?! At least I didn’t find a grey hair in my bush today. There. Something else to be grateful for.”
I’m searching for the silver lining. It’s a full-blown search party over here.
I’m not entirely averse to aging or anything. I guess a part of me just hoped to have accomplished more by the time I hit this big milestone.
I would have loved to be married by now. And to have a bunch of kids running around the house, driving me crazy. Or at least to have a steady boyfriend to pop a bottle of cheap champagne with. With each passing birthday, it seems like Mom was right after all—the women in our family are cursed. We don’t get happy endings.
Deciding not to feel sorry for myself, I dig through the basket of clean clothes and pull on some underwear along with my favorite yoga pants and a fresh tank top. I go down to the kitchen, rummage around in the fridge and put together a small dinner for me and my two foster cats.
I slap together a toasted sandwich for myself out of yesterday’s grilled chicken and plop a couple cans of smoked salmon into the cats’ dishes. My sandwich doesn’t look too great, and I’m completely aware that the cats are feasting like royalty while I’m scraping together scraps from my fridge.
Getting out my leftover lunch cake, I flip it open and stab my fork through the frosting, deciding that it’smyday. If I wanna eat my dessert before dinner, then to hell with societal rules.
I pour myself a glass of wine, not even bothering to open up the nice bottle. I just keep working on the bottle I opened last weekend. Seems like a waste to havetwohalf empty bottles open at the same time on what’s turning out to be a regular ol’ Wednesday evening.
As I crunch into the mini chocolate chips hiding in the cake, my mind drifts back to one evening in particular. “Wanna hear something funny?” I ask Cotton Ball and Captain Ginger as I lean a hip against the kitchen counter. “Me and Cash made a marriage pact once. It was the night of his brother Davis’s wedding to your aunt Alana. At the wedding reception, the guy I was dating started making out with some random stranger and left me standing there like a total fool. Cash, in an attempt to make me feel better about myself, swooped in to the rescue and promised that if I was still single on this very day—my thirtieth birthday—hewould marry me.” I chuckle wryly to myself. “It was all just a joke, though. I neveractuallyexpected him to just show up here and whisk me off to the altar.”
Of course not.
Cash Westbrook is now the filthy rich CFO of one of the biggest financial firms in Chicago. He’s gorgeous. He’s brilliant. He has multiple degrees in business and finance from an ivy league institution and a list of accomplishments a mile long.
He’s the perfect man, who has an unlimited pick from the most beautiful women in the country.Of coursehe’s forgotten all about a silly promise he made to me nine and a half years ago. And on the off chance he didn’t forget, it’d only be something he’d laugh about now. A funny story to tell his picture-perfect future wife someday.
I’d like to say I’ve completely forgotten about that marriage pact, too, but since that day, the contract scribbled onto the back of that gas station receipt has been there, dangling in the back of my mind like the lyrics to my favorite childhood song.
I take a small sip of my wine. “Cash is an incredible person. A bit of a grumpy jerk sometimes, but still an incredible person. And I’m so proud to call him my best friend. But that’s all he’ll ever be in my life.”
A dark laugh escapes when I realize I’m having a full-blown conversation with my foster cats, only cementing my own looney future.
God, it’s true. I’m officially the cat lady.
Okay, get yourself together, Megs. The world doesn’t owe you anything. You’ve gotta just be grateful for what you have, right?
I’m not usually like this. I’m usually optimistic and upbeat. Here’s the way I see it—there are two types of people in the world. Those who complain that they can’t see the sunshine through the rainclouds. And those who choose tobethe sunshine. Usually, I choose to be the sunshine. Usually. At the moment, I’m sort of struggling to wade my way through these rainclouds.
Dinner forgotten, I split up my unappealing sandwich and feed that to the cats, too. All the while, my phone is never far away. Though I know the day is over, and I’ve been long forgotten, I can’t help but hold out hope for a call.
Stuffing the last bite of cake into my face, I drift to the darkened front window where sheets of rain fall and distort my view of the neighborhood.
My eyes catch on movement at the house across the street. Jasper and his friends are having another party over there. Well, at leastsomebody’shaving fun tonight.
Cash owns that house. He bought it years ago when my former neighbors left town and put it up for sale. When I questioned why in the world he’d buy a house in Honey Hill, when he never plans to move back home, he told me that you could never have too much real estate in your portfolio.
Spoken like a true business tycoon.
