Chapter Ten

Fletcher’s tail flicks from left to right in a timed beat as he curls into a tighter ball against my lap. He purrs excessively, which I find soothing.

I stroke my hand down his back to meet the rhythm of his tail swishes as I hold the novel I’m dying to know the ending of in front of my face. I’m focused. I’m following the words of chapter twenty-three as they bleed across cream-coloured pages, and for the first time since I returned home, my mind is quiet.

It doesn’t take long, half a page to be exact, until I find myself distracted and my mind filled with excessive chatter once more.

A wealthy, handsome man who has complimented my voice many times asked me out today. That happened, and I turned him down. Idiot.

My boss, the woman who’s as straight as an arrow, committed, and always in charge, showed a side of herself I’ve never seen before: vulnerability.

The guy I thought I made a connection with in a serendipitous moment is somewhere out there flying under the radar, floating, drifting far, far away from me, never to be heard from again.

I’m unsettled, confused, and lost.

I close my eyes. “Please stop racing, brain. I don’t want to think. I need the quiet again. I need to concentrate on this book,” I mutter.

Fletcher wiggles until he’s tucked up against my lower stomach instead of my upper legs, and I feel the sudden cold where he once was before I’m gifted his warmth again, only now it’s splayed across my gut.

“Who needs a hot water bottle when I’ve got you?” I stroke Fletcher's fur and look out the window. “Rainy, cold weather—it’s a relief from the heat I guess.”

Fletcher purrs harder as I tell myself to focus and allow myself to be captivated by a tale of two entirely fictional people created by an author whose words have so far brought me hope in my search for love.

I push my shoulders back to relieve the twinge of heat I’m experiencing down my neck due to my rigid posture. Finally, I’m relaxing and drawn back to the words filling the pages.

“Don’t do it,” I murmur through a tensed jaw, turning the page. Are you kidding me with this shit? Delilah wants you, Hugh. So what if you're damaged? She’ll love all your parts, every one of them, because they belong to you. Will you let her make up her own fucking mind and not tell her what she should want? I growl as my teeth grind together, and I continue reading.

“You son of a bitch.” I hurl the book across the room, and Fletcher jumps. His claws sink through the material of my skirt and into my skin. “It’s okay, boy.” I run one hand up and down his back rapidly while I use my other hand to wipe away my falling tears.

Click, click.

I hear the lock turn on the door. I pick Fletcher up and stand.

“Daddy’s home, sugar dumplings. How was your—” Chris stops speaking. “Oh, crap. Well, I guessed you'd be here doing something of this nature after I receive your text message and you stood me up at the cafe. It was apple crumble with some really sweet nectar poured on top, if you were wondering." Chris doesn't look mad at me for standing him up. His expression is more of concern. "Come here, honey.” Chris marches towards me.

I put one hand up like a stop sign. “Don’t.”

Chris lifts his arms into the air. Two bags dangling from each of his wrists. “I’ve come prepared. I knew everything would've finally consumed you. I wish I got here sooner. I hate seeing you cry.”

“You can’t swoop in and be my knight in shining armour all the time, Christopher Gandy.”

“Who says?” He’s expressionless.

“Society. Me. My mother.”

“Your mother? Pfft! Please. That bitch is batshit crazy.”

I giggle and cry at the same time.

Chris takes a long stride towards me. “Mindy, let me tell you something: I may love the guys, and I do find all women sexually revolting, but honey, I can be your knight in shining armour. There are no rules to say a gay man can’t love a straight woman in such a way. Plus, I'll only be filling such shoes until your forever man, the one lost, taking his sweet-arse time getting to you, who doesn’t know his way around a fucking love map, gets here.”

I giggle harder.

The comfort I feel as Chris wraps his arms around Fletcher and me, pulling us against his chest, is just what I need right now. A hug can take a small chunk of a burden away from a person.

"Fletcher." I wiggle myself from Chris's grip.

"Are you alive, furball? Do you need Unky Chris to give you kitty mouth-to-mouth?”

I look at Fletcher whose eyes are narrow. His ears are pointed, and he is most definitely giving Chris his famous death stare. I shift my eyes to Chris, and I find myself wishing just for a moment he was straight, and that I had unrequited love for him. Maybe I would love Chris in that way if he were straight. How am I to know I wouldn’t? It would be easier for me if Chris were the possessor of my apparent love map because at least I know we’d get along great and I could talk to him about anything and everything.

“In these bags, I have everything to make you feel better. You leave it to me, okay?”

“I’m crying because of the stupid book you got me. Why is Hugh such a dick? And how the hell is Delilah ever going to survive the soul-crushing aftermath of his dickery?”

“Oh, you got to that part. Probably not the best time to get there.”

“Tell me they live happily ever after.”

“I can’t ruin the book for you, but Mindy, they can if you believe they will. You know, you never have to pick it up and finish it. You can write your own ending to their story.”

“I can write the end? Well, in that case, the scene in the restaurant never actually happened. Delilah dreamt it. Growing inside her womb is a little pea-sized Hugh. He’ll get down on bended knee, confess his deep and undying love for her, and ask her to be his wife all before she even gets a chance to tell him she’s carrying his child.”

“Well, it's an interesting direction to take this particular story in." Chris shakes his head. "I mean, it's a beautiful and creative ending." The smirk that follows makes his words unconvincing. “Mindy, if you could write the ending of your own love story, what would it be?”

I don’t answer. I picture Arlie and me dancing on a beach in the tropics, sipping cocktails on our honeymoon.

Why the hell am I so infatuated with a man I barely know, one who apparently has no intention of ever being in the same room with me again? If he did, he would have made contact by now. I should've agreed to the date with Matthew Muller. I’ve probably blown my chance with him now too.

My love life: Currently messy and incredibly complex.

Does this continue to get worse after you turn thirty? I sure hope not because the big three zero is less than two weeks away, and my twenties and my youth are about to expire.

Thirty! Why do I have to turn thirty?