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CHAPTER 2
“Cat. Cat. Catherine. Kitten. Helloo!”
“Mm?”
“Did you hear anything I told you?”
“Yeah, yeah. You’re old.”
“Cat! You’re supposed to make me feel better, not agree with me!”
Feeling way too giddy for my own good, I turn to one of my best friends in the world, my smile fading as I see the seriousness in her face. “Sorry, Sher. Of course. What were you saying?”
“Do you really think the doc was right? Am I getting old? I mean, am I so old that birth control isn’t even an option?”
“What? She said that?” I ask in disbelief.
“Yeah. She kept saying, ‘At your age this’ and ‘At your age that.’ I feel so old. No kids. No husband. Not even a prospect for a boyfriend.” Sheridan sighs and slumps forward, dropping her forehead to the cocktail table we’re sitting at.
When I met Sheridan, almost twenty years ago at the veterinary clinic where we worked as receptionists, she was one of my idols. Gorgeous beyond what should be legal, perfect dark skin with just a hint of copper, long flowing hair, and hazel eyes, she had all the men panting for her. But they were all so intimidated. They still are.
“Maybe Ghellar’s was a bad idea,” I say, looking around at the fancy interior, complete with piano bar and waterfall walls. This is the sort of place you come to have expensive undersized tapas, not unload your dating woes.
“It can’t end like this,” I think she mumbles.
Moving her glass of red wine for fear she may knock it over, I say, “Sher, you’re only forty. And even if you are going into perimenopause, she’s a bitch for making you feel this way. I’m thinking I want to go and give her a piece of my mind. What office is she at?” I ask, pulling out my phone, ready to search for the gynecologist that made this sweet girl feel like her womanhood is over.
“No, no. It’s okay. I really just need to get a second opinion. Though I’m sure she’s right about my crazy periods.”
“I don’t care if she’s right. As a woman, she should be more sensitive.” My nostrils are practically flaring as I say it.
“Really, it’s okay. I think I’m just feeling the old biological clock ticking. And seeing everyone settled down…”
“Everyone who? I don’t have a husband. Or a boyfriend. No prospects either,” I tell her.
She lifts her head, displaying a large red spot on her forehead from pressing it to the table. “You have a daughter. And by the looks you keep giving that guy, I’d say you do have a prospect.”
“That guy?” I ask, turning to the sexy thing hanging with his buddies four tables away. His eyes are still aimed at me, and though he’s not outright smiling, his lips pull up as he lifts his glass of water to me. Shit, he’s hot. So hot in fact, I can feel the heat all the way from here and it’s burning me to my core. “I’m happy not to deal with any relationship bullshit. Besides, he’s a baby.”
“He looks an awful lot like a man to me,” she says, smiling devilishly.
“Anything under forty is a baby in my eyes. I want a man older than me, someone who could teach me a thing or two. I don’t have time to show a guy where my clit is,” I say winking at him, lifting my own glass of water to him just for fun.
The night passes in much the same fashion as we enjoy our drinks, Sheridan her fancy wine and lemon water for me. We talk about life, with lots to say even though we see each other practically every day, a bi-product of living next to each other.
In between breaths, I look to the cutie a few tables away, raising an eyebrow, licking my lips or the rim of my glass, teasing him for my own enjoyment.
It’s working, too. His eyes are on me so hard I can feel them even when I’m not looking at him. The room seems to be getting hotter and hotter the longer this goes on, and I begin to feel sweat beading on my brow and upper lip.
Fanning myself, I say, “Is it just me, or is it a little warm in here?” and take a sip of water.
“It’s just you,” Sheridan says, looking cool as a clam.
“I’ll be right back. I’m gonna go splash some water on my face. Will you get me another glass? Maybe extra ice in it?” I get up, smoothing down the soft fabric of my little black dress, or as I like to call it, “old trusty” because I wear it almost every time we go out.
Cute guy’s eyes follow me as I pass his table, and I make sure to sway my hips more with each step. From my peripheral vision, I can see him set his drink down before I move too far beyond sight, turning down the long hallway that leads to the restrooms.
In the bathroom, I pat down any unwanted perspiration and touch up my makeup. There’s not much to touch up usually, but tonight I did smoke my eyes and I want to look sexy, not like a raccoon. My shoulder length hair has gone a limp, so I fluff up the blonde stuff with my fingers until it looks full again.
