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They don’t even know we exist, evidenced by his blowing right past me, arguing on his phone about how many reservations they can fit in tonight.
No, I get to date the guy my sister and brother-in-law think I’m barely worthy of, even if his name is Deck and he picks his nose in public.
I trot after Owen, of course from a distance, once there’s no chance of his seeing me. There are just a few city blocks until we reach our respective businesses, so I wrap up my miserable call with Krista. I call it miserable because, thanks to her relentless pressure, I agree to go out with the nose pickerone last time.
One last time, because, as we know,I can’t afford to be so picky.That’s how much of a bottom-dweller I am.
That’s howmyday is starting.
2
LIVVY
As soon asOwen unlocks the front door to EastSide, I scurry across the street from where I’m hiding or rather, spying on him. Too bad we didn’t have a few more blocks to go so I could continue to admire his muscular ass, perfectly encased by a pair of Levi’s.
Once he’s inside the restaurant and there’s no chance of coming face-to-face with him, I push up my own security gate to open my upscale pet boutique.
I love saying that.My boutique.
All mine. Mine, mine, mine.
Until I opened Pawsh Pets, I never had much of my own. Not my own bedroom, not my own clothes, not even my own books. The house I grew up in was small enough that Krista and I had to share a room, and because we were basically the same size, we shared clothes too. Which really was the ultimate insult because I was on the losing end of nearly every fight over them.
Thank God, our reading tastes were different, even though everything on our shelves was ‘co-owned,’ a term my mother liked to use to make sharing sound fun and cool. The books I knew Krista would never open were the ones I wrote my name in, large and possessive on the title page. No one would ever know, because no one but me would ever read these books. At last, I owned something. They might have been mine only because no one else wanted them, but I didn’t care. To me, they were still mine.
I worked two, sometimes three jobs at a time for years, saving every last penny to open Pawsh. When it came down to it, no big surprise, I didn’t have enough cash. Luckily, because my parents splurged on a fancy-ass wedding for my sister to impress her new in-laws, they took pity on me and gave me what they would have spent onmywedding, something that would surely never happen because hey—I’m Livvy, Krista is Krista, and she’s the pretty one who gets the guy.
Yeah, their vote of nonconfidence stung, but in the end, I got Pawsh, and that’s all that really mattered.
The bells on the front door jingle as I enter, and Harry, the world’s laziest cat and Pawsh resident, opens one eye from his perch to see who’s disturbing his sleep. When he finds it’s me, he turns over with a grunt and gets back to snoozing.
When I opened Pawsh, I thought it would be cool to have a store cat, like a mascot, living here as a permanent fixture, who people in the neighborhood would stop by and say hi to and offer a nice scritch under the chin. Instead, Harry—named after Prince Harry thanks to his ginger color—has turned out to be the most unpleasant pet anyone could ever had. He hisses at our customers, yowls at me for his food, and can’t be bothered to move from his perch. I won’t complain too much, though. At least he gets up to go potty in his box. It’s like he knows I’d draw the line at an incontinent feline and give him the boot from his sweet setup here to a new home, God forbid a family with children who would expect him to interact.
Before I set out my organic dog treats in the front window, chilled overnight to the perfect consistency, I stop for a moment to admire the shop with its bleached pine shelves stocked with all things pet-related, from cashmere cat beds to Swarovski-studded dog leashes. Everything’s tidy and in its place. To the quick observer, Pawsh is more a peaceful day spa for humans than a place to get high-end trinkets for fur babies.
But as hip as the place is, it unfortunately doesn’t smell like a spa due to the stinky scent of raw, organic pet food, my daily reminder to flick on the expensive air filter one of my dog food reps convinced me to buy. Baby works like a champ, especially with my cedar-juniper reed diffuser.
While the air filter whirs quietly, I arrange the Jenga-like display of pet treats in my front window, wondering if Owen Whitlocke, of this morning’s titillating sighting and the restaurant next door, or his partners, might happen by. While I am under no illusion they’ll stop and chat, or even smile and wave, it’s always nice to see any of the trio. Seriously. How is it that three perfect specimens of maleness banded together to open one of the hottest restaurants on Manhattan’s Upper East Side?
Some people have all the luck. These guys have been blessed with good looks, success, and probably more women than they know what to do with.
Just as I take a photo of the store’s front window for the Pawsh Pets Instagram account, which is up to a whopping two hundred followers, most of them the kids who visited the store on a school trip last month, the phone screeches. I run for it, remembering I turned it up to full blast yesterday when I was working in the back.
Harry, who’s already hissed at me twice this morning, glares at the disturbance.
“Livvy?” a shaky voice asks when I pick up the receiver.
Oh boy.
“Hi Jewel. What’s up?” I ask my shop assistant.
Between the two of us, it’s a draw as to who has the worst love life. Actually, who’s to say in the complete absence of a love life like mine, or one that implodes on a monthly basis, like Jewel’s?
“Liv, he broke up with me,” she says between choking sobs.
I sigh. Jewel has been with me for nearly two years, and the number of calls I’ve gotten like this are too numerous to count.
“Okay, Jewel, you know what to do. Take some deep breaths, honey.”
