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“Of course, no worries,” I say, starting toward her. “I have a cat at home, a big, orange tabby. His name is Hambone.”
Her smile widens. “Oh, that’s lovely. I love tabbies. My first cat when I was a little girl was a tabby. She used to bring me dead mice in the morning and put them right by my bed. Scared the dickens out of me, but she was so proud, so I tried not to scream when I saw them.”
I laugh softly. “Cats are monsters, but sweet ones.”
“The very sweetest,” she says, her tired eyes brightening as she collects her purse from the chair beside where the carrier sits on the ground. “I’m Muriel, by the way.”
“Dipsy,” I say, the name sad on my lips. But that’s who I am. I’m Dipsy. I clearly lack the adulting skills to be Rose.
Rose would know how to balance work and a relationship. If she didn’t, she wouldn’t have let herself spend time alone with a man like Bear in the first place. Rose would have known better.
“So nice to meet you, Dipsy. And thank you. I won’t be long.” Muriel reaches for her suitcase, and I offer, “You can leave that here, too, if you’d like. It’s always easier to get in and out of the stall without a big bag.”
She hesitates, her fingers tapping on the handle. “Well, we’re not supposed to leave our bags unattended with strangers, but you seem like such a sweet girl. You have a trustworthy face.”
I smile. “I get that a lot, and I am trustworthy, but if you feel more comfortable taking your bag, you should.”
Muriel’s brow furrows. “Where’s your bag?”
“That’s a long story,” I say with a sigh, briefly relating the tale of the twin bags. “Or triplet bags, I guess,” I amend. “My friend had one, I had one, and then there was the one I turned in to the lost and found.”
“Oh, dear,” she says, fingers tapping faster. “It wasn’t a gray suitcase by any chance, was it?”
I cock my head with a frown. “It was. Are you psychic?”
Muriel laughs. “Oh no, not at all. There was a woman here not long ago, complaining to her friend about having the wrong suitcase. She was worried about not having any Christmas presents for her coven.”
My brows lift. “Coven?”
“Yes.” She lowers her voice, “They were talking very openly about being witches. And I’m not one to judge, but they were also talking very openly and loudly about…other things. Private things.”
Clearing my throat, I struggle to think of a tasteful way to ask if she’s talking about dildos. But there is no tasteful way to ask about dildos, so I stick to, “Intimate things? Intimate things you would use…intimately?”
She nods quickly. “Yes! Hanky-panky toys and spicy magic. That’s what my granddaughter calls it when a show has too much kissing in it. She says it’s ‘spicy’ and asks to change the channel. She’s at that age where she still thinks boys are gross.”
“Lucky her,” I say with a wry twist of my lips.
Muriel chuckles softly. “Isn’t that the truth. I loved my Phillip, and we had a lot of good years, but when he left me for the woman next door, a part of me was relieved. Let her make his four-course dinner every night after a long day of work. I’ll spend my evenings quilting and watching Grey’s Anatomy. Such a good show. Do you watch?”
I shake my head. “No, but I’ll put it on my list.”
Her smile widens. “You should. Such great characters. The kittens are named Meredith and Cristina, after my two favorites.” She motions toward the cats. “Oh, and don’t worry if they wake up and start crying, they’re still getting the hang of travelling. I’ll be back as fast as I can. And then you can go look for your suitcase at the lost and found. I’m pretty sure the witches said they’d turned it in. Hopefully without putting a hex on it.”
Laughing, I assure her, “I’m not worried. And take your time. I’m in no rush.”
She thanks me again and, after a beat of consideration, leaves her suitcase on the other side of the cats’ carrier before scurrying across the terminal to the bathrooms with just her purse.
Resisting the impulse to reach for my cell and numb my pain with a mindless puzzle game—I can tell Muriel wouldn’t be a fan of me being on my phone while I’m supposed to be cat sitting—I watch the people come and go from the donut shoppe. It’s a bit farther down the hall from the bathrooms, lit by a giant pink neon donut on the wall above the counter. The coffee smells burnt and awful, but the line remains long.
I guess some people are determined to stay awake all night.
I get it. I would usually be afraid to fall asleep alone, but right now, I don’t care about being vulnerable in a public place. I just want to be unconscious, far from my waking worries and the clawing certainty that I’ve made a terrible mistake.
