by Ellie Hall
“I’m your morning wake up call,” Hazel says. The beeping she’s making with her mouth turns into a whistle as Hazel tilts her head in question at the website on the screen. “This is not a dog adoption website. Catherine Kittredge, what have you been up to?”
She reaches over my shoulder and before I can stop her, she unplugs my laptop from the power supply, picks it up, and rushes from my room, calling, “This is better than the morning news.”
“Come back,” I say weakly. But the damage is done. What the heck was I thinking? I wasn’t thinking. Or rather, I was thinking, but about men and dating and this is exactly why I don’t do it. It takes up too much headspace, makes me do stupid things, and stay up way too late.
Never mind the ruins of my heart. What about my ego?
I inhale, smooth my hair, and go to the kitchen. Hazel perches at the center island with a green juice in hand and the computer in front of her. There’s a second juice in front of the other stool. I take a sip and gag.
“It’s really good for you.”
“How about eggs and toast? Sausage, bacon, hash browns?”
“How about we go for breakfast and you tell me all about your night?”
“I think you just read everything because I’m an idiot and published it on the internet!” I cup my hands over my face.
Hazel clicks something on the screen and says, “Me and ninety-two people. Not bad for a first blog that’s only been live for a few hours. But there’s no mention of Kellan.”
“No, this is an anti-Kellan initiative.”
Hazel’s mouth twists. “He’s technically number one and number five.” I haven’t told her how he’s upped the ante either. But she reads it and her eyes widen.
“Well, things just got more interesting.” Hazel’s laughter is loud enough to wake the entire building. “I see dimples, Catherine,” Hazel says.
I rush into the bathroom and take a shower because that can only mean one thing. I’m thinking about Kellan again.
Man Bun Barista
Catherine
Hazel walks me to the subway station and my toes are already getting cold.
“So, who’s next? Ah, yes, the Man-bun-barista,” Hazel says with a strange smile.
I have the oddest feeling that she’s smoking me out to reveal it’s Kellan I want. No, I don’t.
“So what’s your type?” she asks.
An unwelcome face, kissed by the sun no matter the season, with full lips. A strong jaw, and the bright blue eyes shared by all the Connollys pops into mind. I glance around. “Um, my type? New York Knicks’s hat, leather gloves, brown parka.”
“Catherine, you’re describing that guy over there.” She points. The man I was describing turns around, revealing a bulging belly, straining the zipper on his coat. “And no. I will not let that be your type.”
I cringe.
“I’m always looking out for you, kid.”
“Hey, I’m older than you.”
“By three months. I meant to tell you, I’m going to have to leave Mew to babysit you.”
“Where are you going?”
“Weeklong yoga retreat up in New England. If you want to get out of town, I could see if there’s still space available.”
I shake my head. I have to save my pennies, for one thing, and I won’t mind having the apartment to myself. Books won’t do things like dare me to date guys.
“Well, in that case, you’ll have company.”
We’re at my stop and I have to hop on the subway if I’m going to get Mr. Bratt’s coffee in time for him not to be more awful to me than he ordinarily is. “What do you mean company?”
She says something, a name maybe, but a bus trundles by, belching exhaust. The last part and the only part I hear is, “Just until his new Airbnb rental is ready. It’ll be fun! See you next week.”
My forehead crimps. Who could she mean? I shrug as I descend into the subway and am relieved because I can give the whole dating thing a break without her breathing down my neck.
I rush to pick up Mr. Bratte’s coffee, bolt to the elevators, and stuff myself between a woman whose sneeze reminds me of a mouse and a bald man who looks queasy. Cold and flu season is upon us.
Bratte stumps through the foyer toward the elevator bank, and I pound the up button to spare him the exposure to sickness, I swear.
By some act of grace, I have his drink on his desk, am seated at mine, and look busy when he passes. However, I’m not transcribing his messages or scheduling meetings. I reread what I wrote on my blog, feeling slightly mortified. I’m not the kind of girl who dates and writes about it.
I should delete the blog. End it right here, right now.
Mr. Bratte signals me. “Meeting in ten, Miss Kamelot.”
After getting everything prepared, I stumble at the sound of laughter, nearly tipping over the cart with the coffee urns and pastry tray.
“Ah, Miss Kablecar.”
“Kittredge,” I say. I avoid meeting Kellan’s eyes. He wears a dark blue suit, no tie. The muscles of his biceps strain slightly against the material. I’ve never thought much about guys in suits or arm muscles, but it’s suddenly my new obsession.
“You remember Mr. Connolly, of course,” Bratte says.
My boss doesn’t seem to have trouble remembering his last name.
“Good morning, Ms. Kittredge,” Kellan says, not avoiding my glossy lips. Maybe I need to stop gawking.
“Be a doll and get our newest client a coffee,” Bratte orders. In the background, he drones to Kellan about what a great partnership this will be while waiting for Coco and Carlotta to arrive for the meeting.
I should be preparing the coffees. I should be thinking about where to get a better job. I should be minding my own business, but I’m dying to know why Kellan needs a publicist. This firm deals with celebrities, authors, TV personalities, musicians, and high-level business people. Unless I missed something, he’s none of those. Occasionally, they step in when a public figure screws up their reputation—what misdeed could he have done to necessitate an intervention?
Kellan charms the pants off Bratte and Albright, who just arrived—her lips painted red—, when the coffee urn spits a steaming hot spout of brown liquid square in the chest of my white shirt. This one has pearly buttons and seemed to be perfectly tailored to make my average shape look shapelier.
I yelp, my skin scalding.
Kellan rushes over to me as I hold my hands in front of the painful stain. “Hot. Coffee. Burns,” I sputter before breaking free and rushing to the bathroom.
Moments later, someone knocks on the bathroom door. “You okay in there?” It’s Kellan’s low, rumbling voice. His hulking outline fills the smoked glass window of the door.
“Yes. Fine.”
“Are you sure? Can I do anything?”
“Go away.” The words are cold, unnecessary, rote. My heart thumps as if scolding me.
His silhouette remains outside the door for another moment before disappearing.
Coco sends me home. It’s just as well. A storm is in the forecast and I’m happy to be snowed in with cookies, books, and my laptop. Nonetheless, in a panic, I text Hazel what happened. She directs me to a gooey balm in the bathroom cabinet that she got from one of her yoga students. I should get the stained shirt in the washing machine right away. I spot a shirt hanging partway out of the box that also holds The Boyfriend Book. I pull out an oversized, perfectly worn-in cotton T-shirt from high school. On the front is the school mascot, an image of Poseidon wielding his trident. Across the back are the letters C-O-N-N-E-L-L-Y. As a member of the football team, Kellan had to wear it on special spirit days.
I bring the shirt to my nose. It smells faintly of bleach and...of him. It’s a scent I can’t quite name. More like a combination of delicious smells. I pull it on one last time then it’s going down the garbage chute.
Ready to bake my way into oblivion, a paper coffee cup on the counter next to a folded piece of paper with my name on it cat
ches my eye. “Mew, your mommy is so thoughtful. I pop off the lid and bring it to the microwave to warm it, but it’s empty and looks used.
On the side of the cup, I spot a phone number. The note says:
Hello, Catherine The Great!
I took the liberty of texting Man-bun-barista and setting up a date for you this evening. By the way, his name is Bash. I think we should stick with calling him Man-bun-barista though or MBB for short. You’re having dinner at his place. Text him to confirm.
Xo Hazel
P.S. Make sure you introduce Mew to the houseguest and both of you be on your best behavior!
My computer beeps with a notification. I’m shocked to see several comment notifications from my blog.
The first one says: Will you see the hottie in 7G again?
We’re neighbors. That can’t be avoided.
Another says: What are the exact guidelines for the dare because I don’t want to be alone on Feb. 14 and this seems like a duplicatable idea.
Then two ask: If you don’t pick the hottie in 7G for your Valentine’s Day date will you share his email address?
Um, no. He’s reserved for Hazel.
I go to my blog dashboard and write up how I don’t think the Hottie in 7G is long-term material...for me. Then again, Valentine’s Day isn’t the beginning of a marriage. Hazel didn’t dare me to find the man who’s going to meet me at the end of the aisle.
Her on the other hand...
My email dings again. You’re inspiring me to get back out there and date, not because I need a man. Sadly, I believed in the Prince Charming myth for too long and grew frustrated when he didn’t show up, but date just to have fun? I honestly never thought of it that way.
Me neither.
Colette’s avatar is in the next comment and all it says is: Yeehaw! Hazel must have given her the blog address.
One of the ladies from the last post asks: Is the hottie in 7G off the market?
Ugh.
I write up a post and lay the snark on heavy about how my dating dilemma with MBB. There’s unanimous encouragement.
Username ShellsXOX writes: If this Man-bun is making you dinner, you’re one lucky gal. Do you know what I would give if my ex got his butt in the kitchen—to take out the trash, put away his dirty dishes, or cook something for goodness’ sake?
MelodyMiles: What does he look like?
Catnip (me): He has dark hair, often in a bun, obviously, dark eyes, olive skin, and multiple tattoos. I think he might be Latino? I’m not sure.
ShellsXOX: H-O-T. I love guys with long hair.
DaisyDuke31 writes: If you’re not interested, I’d be happy to meet him!
This makes me ponder. I could take him on the proverbial test drive, make sure he’s not weirdo, a man-boy, or has a collection of pickled prunes. I could then dare them to date him. A weird pay-it-forward scenario.
This time, virtual peer pressure pushes me out the door.
Let’s just say the date with MBB was delicious. He inspired me to get into the kitchen but not his kitchen. It’s lonely here without Hazel, but at least I have Mew.
With date number two done and dusted, my oven dings.
I take the batch of cookies out of the oven and am about to throw a load of laundry in when a key jiggles in the lock. I expect Hazel to enter, all rosy-cheeked and smiling—aglow from her yoga retreat.
Instead, a man in a dark blue suit and carrying a couple of travel bags enters. Stubble lines his jaw. Full lips quirk. His hair is slightly mussed from the wind and a couple of snowflakes cling to his shoulders.
“Hey roomie,” Kellan says.
I am speechless. Then Hazel’s comment about company slices into my mind.
“Ooh, cookies? Any left?” he asks, bee-lining for the kitchen.
I stand, frozen in the hall, as Mew winds between my legs as if reminding me of my manners. Oh, and I’m wearing his T-shirt again.
In Sickness & Health
Kellan
Catherine looks adorable in an oversized, perfectly worn-in cotton T-shirt from high school. On the front is the school mascot, an image of Poseidon wielding his trident. Across the back is my last name. As a member of the football team, I had to wear it on school spirit days.
I’m surprised she still has it. Flattered. Hopeful. Then realize maybe she just grabbed it after the coffee spill at the office. Still, she hadn’t created an effigy of me, dressed it in the shirt, and burned it while cursing my existence.
I pop my head out of the kitchen to find her still standing by the door in the entryway. “Did Hazel not mention—?” She offered me her wing of the apartment, assuring me Catherine wouldn’t even know I was here, but I don’t think that was the point.
Her head slides from side to side and her eyes narrow.
“My old Airbnb was a claustrophobic nightmare. I, uh, don’t do well in confined spaces. We were chatting and—”
“When were you chatting with my best friend?”
“She, um, called me.” I wince because it isn’t what it sounds like. After hanging out with Catherine, Hazel, and their friends during the housewarming party, I got the sense Hazel is a serial dater. I scratch my temple and then say as much. “So I don’t want you to think she got ahold of me for any reason other than to—”
“How’d she get ahold of you?” Catherine sounds like she’s leading an inquisition.
“Harry must’ve given her my number. Listen, she called because she’s concerned about you. She mentioned Claire and—”
Catherine tenses.
“She’s concerned about you. Thinks maybe you’re still struggling with what happened.”
“Did you tell her about us and what—”
I shake my head. “No. I didn’t tell her anything personal about you or us.” I pause. Is it really that awful? I mean, I left, but what happened before. My stomach twists into a knot. Yep. I broke a promise. I broke her heart. Her trust. It is that bad.
“Listen, you probably need to get your shirt washed from work. I have laundry to do. Hazel said there is a laundry room downstairs. The place I was staying wasn’t as advertised. I haven’t done laundry in over a week. We can order a pizza and I’ll explain.”
Her brow furrows. “A pizza?”
“Yeah. When I was in Italy, there was a great pizza place next to the lavanderia de gittoni. I’d get a pie while waiting for my load to dry.”
“You speak Italian?”
I shrug. “A bit.”
Her cheeks tint.
I wonder if she has a thing for the romance language. Note to self.
Catherine hesitates but ultimately follows me downstairs. The laundry room is spacious, clean, and there’s even a lounge area. She tosses her white shirt with coffee stains into the machine along with a slew of other clothing.
“Shouldn’t you stain treat that and then put it in with a whites load?” Without letting her answer, I take the shirt out, treat it, and then put it in with my whites.
She tries to protest.
“Nope. I’m the laundry police and you were committing a crime, miss. Also, you looked good in that button-down. I’d like to see you wear it again.”
The dimple teases its way to the surface. I order a pizza and then explain what I’m doing in her laundry room.
“I’m waiting for my new rental to become available.”
Catherine huffs.
“Hazel said it wouldn’t be a problem. That we’d each have our own space. That you wouldn’t mind. Do you mind?”
I leave out the part about Hazel’s excitement when I’d asked if she knew about any other rentals in the area as if she’d had a stroke of genius. The subtext was by offering me the room for the week, it would force Catherine and me to get over our differences. I can’t say that I object.
Her silence is long as she watches the soap suds up in the window of the washing machine.
The pizza arrives. “They weren’t kidding when they said ten minutes or less or the pie is free.” I give th
e delivery kid a generous tip and thank him.
Catherine remains quiet and picks at the slice.
“Cat?” My voice is huskier than I expect.
When she remains quiet, I say, “Listen, if it’s too much or...or whatever, I can find somewhere else to stay.”
“I’ve wanted to talk to you—” The words are strained. “But I’m mad. You have no idea what your stupid act of selfishness did to me. It was humiliating. It broke me. My world crumbled. Yours was the worst kind of betrayal. Why couldn’t you have just said something? Anything?” Tears threaten to breach, but she pushes back against vulnerability. “I’ve hoped this ache would go away, but even after all this time, it hasn’t. I felt confused and hurt. At first, I couldn’t believe it, but reality is like a slap in the face. Yours stung the worst. I’ve been lost ever since and trying and failing, to find my way. You know what someone recently said to me, follow my heart. Someone else suggested I do that once, and it didn’t work out so well did it?” Her breath comes in heavy puffs.
What do I say to that? “I promise, it won’t ever happen again.”
“Don’t make promises—” Red rises to her cheeks.
“You’re right. But Catherine, I vow never again to break your trust or do anything to hurt you.” A moment too late I realize that was a poor choice of words.
Cathering tugs on the hem of the T-shirt.
“I remember giving you that to wear. I didn’t think you’d meet me. I didn’t think you’d go night swimming. I didn’t think you’d say yes—” I take a deep breath and add, “After everything that happened with Zach and then Claire, what I want you to know is what happened with us, was about us. At least that’s how I felt about it. It wasn’t about you on the rebound because of Zach. It wasn’t because we had bleeding hearts after losing Claire. I always had feelings for you. I hooked up with a new girl every month, week, at any given party to distract myself from how much I wanted to have someone I couldn’t. I kept the truth about Zach from you because I didn’t want to see you hurt.”