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I grumble a ‘good night’ and, on that, I rush out of the gas station into what is now a freaking downpour. The sky is black and the town has already gone quiet for the night. It’s late as fuck.
My cheap plastic bags crinkle obnoxiously when I drop my haul onto my passenger seat. I yank open my glovebox and shove my receipt inside. Sure as hell I’m expensing this trip, whether the assholes in accounting like it or not.
As I’m shutting the glove compartment, an older, faded slip of paper flutters to the floor. I swallow and my throat knots hard as I pick it up. I let my eyes skim over the words jotted across the nine and a half year old scrap of paper, the signatures scribbled in sloppy, familiar handwriting.
On this twenty-fifth day of May, Cassius Westbrook and Meghan Hutchins hereby agree that if neither of them are married by the time they turn age thirty, they shall marry one another.
Putting the old receipt back where I found it, I forcibly shove those memories aside. I slam the box shut and pull out of the gas station with my wipers swishing rain left and right.
Just my friend. Meghan Hutchins is just my friend.
Although the whole world seems to be convinced otherwise.
Meghan
“Y’know, today isn’tthatbad,” I tighten my towel around my boobs and lift open the top of the washing machine. “Yes, it’s my thirtieth birthday. And yes, I’m spending it doing my laundry—alone—but who am I to expect the world to stop spinning and throw me a pity party, y’know?”
I peer down into the hollow barrel of my washing machine. A full load of pink-tinted blouses stare back at me.
Those blouses used to be white.
Twenty-three minutes ago.
Shit—did I accidentally drop a red sock in there or something?
Rising onto my tiptoes, I lean down and dig through the damp laundry in search of the errant article of clothing responsible for ruining half my wardrobe. “What I’m saying is, life is all about choices. And I choose to be grateful,” I declare as I pick the strawberry-patterned granny panties I wore to work this morning out of the load of discolored blouses. “I’m grateful for this house I bought all on my own. And for a job I love. And for you…”
Feeling a genuine flutter of happiness in my heart, I pause to tickle behind the ear of the five-pound ball of fur and bones curled up atop the dryer. Captain Ginger lazily opens one amber eye to squint vacantly at me.
“As far as birthdays go, this one isn’t atotaldud…right?”
The grumpy bastard lifts his little orange paw and smacks my hand away from his ear.
“Hey!” I chide softly. “Don’t be mean to me. I’m going through a ‘thing’ right now. I could use some emotional support.”
I pour in a bit of detergent and restart the washing machine, hoping to rinse the red dye out of my blouses. While the barrel fills with water, I turn around to scoop up the basket of tank tops, gym bras and yoga pants I just pulled out of the dryer. I find the haughty white Persian cat stretched out across the top of my clean clothes.
Well, no wonder I’m always covered in cat hair.
“Cotton Ball! You’re not supposed to be there and you know it.” I gently shoo her off and she hops down to her feet in that regal way of hers, cursing at me the whole time.
These two are a pair of entitled, little brats. Too bad they’re so damn adorable. And I’m gettingwaymore attached to them than I should.
With my phone clutched securely in my palm, I pad up the stairs, laundry basket tucked under my arm.
“As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, today hasn’t beenentirelylame. Alana took me out for lunch earlier, and she splurged on a huge piece of double chocolate cake. Isn’t she sweet?” I grin at the thought of my lifelong bestie. “Anyway, we didn’t come close to finishing the cake, so I’ve got at least one thing sitting in the fridge to look forward to later. Then, Emma and Ziggy promised to take me out this weekend, so I’ll count that as another ‘something’ to look forward to.”
I enter my bedroom, Captain Ginger and Cotton Ball tangling around my ankles.
These cats have been extra, extra clingy tonight. Which is a tad creepy, because the orange one usually stays hidden all day, only coming out to attack my socked feet while I get ready for bed.
But tonight, it’s like they're rubbing up against my legs, mewling at me, and saying, “We understand you’re thirty now and still all alone. Adopt us and we’ll upgrade you from lonely bachelorette to crazy cat lady.”
“I’m onto you,” I murmur to them as I lower to the edge of my bed with a bottle of moisturizer in hand.
Most of my recent birthdays have been spent with my girlfriends, but this year, it seems that everyone has something more important to do. Alana, Ziggy, Emma—hell even the woman who birthed me—all had excuses for why they couldn’t celebrate with me tonight.
I’ve been trying to brush it off, to not be offended, reminding myself that the girls all have their own lives to live with their own things happening. Especially on a week night.
