One Week Hating You

by Roya Carmen

  Can we be friends? I ask myself. Is this a bad idea? I don’t ponder it too long before responding.

  I’m great. It’s so nice to see you on Facebook. We can keep in touch now. I’m back home and looking for a job. I had an interview two days ago, and I think it went well but they haven’t called me back yet. How are you?

  I put on the movie but I’m only half watching, one eye glued to my phone, impatiently waiting for a message from Blake. Following about forty-five minutes of this pathetic nonsense, I shake my head and talk some sense into myself. I grab my phone, mute it and stick it in my purse by the front door. Enough of these pathetic shenanigans.

  I enjoy my movie and junk food. I fall asleep while watching a second movie, and when I wake in the morning, I feel rested and happy. It shames me to admit it but the first thing I do is run to my phone. A woman only has so much self-restraint.

  Hey Freckles. Good luck with the job. I really hope you get it. It’s just another day here for me. Running around as usual. Remember John Trainor? From high school? I ran into him yesterday, and he was trying to sell me a puppy. He breeds dogs. But you know me, always so busy, no time for a dog. Too high maintenance. Although I’m thinking maybe a cat? What do you think?

  I smile so wide, I’m surprised my face doesn’t break in two. I tap away feverishly. Full bladder and empty stomach be damned.

  No way!!! I was just thinking about getting a cat too!!!

  I’m enjoying peanut butter on toast and a glass of milk when he replies.

  Let’s cat shop together!!!

  I laugh out loud. Blake always makes me laugh.

  LMFO!!! How would that work exactly? I’m here, and you’re there.

  __

  What does LMFO mean?

  __

  Oh my god! He is so adorable. He doesn’t even know what LMFO means. It’s like he’s been living in the ice age.

  LMFO means laughing my face off, silly. You’re funny. So how do we cat shop together?

  __

  I was thinking I’d go to the shelter tomorrow. I can take photos and send them to you. You could help me choose one. And you do the same.

  I smile. I actually really like that idea. Cat shopping has suddenly moved up on my to-do list.

  Sounds good!

  __

  Okay, gotta run right now, but I’ll keep in touch!

  __

  Bye. :)

  I check my phone. Still no message from Serena. I’m trying not to get upset over it, but I can’t help feeling a little peeved. If you’re not going to give someone the job, the least you could do is tell them.

  “That one looks just like Mitzy,” Kayla says.

  “She does,” Gabbie agrees. “I love orange cats.”

  We all assume the cat is female because she’s wearing a pink collar. When I told the girls I was cat shopping, they were all over it, with the exception of Corrie, who’s more of a dog person. I was thrilled when Kayla and Gabbie told me they wanted to tag along.

  “How is Elsie getting along with Floyd?” Kayla asks. Elsie is Gabbie’s cat, and Floyd is her new boyfriend’s dog.

  “They pretty much ignore each other,” she tells us. “They both seem to really like the new place. Floyd hangs out in Eli’s studio, and Elsie hangs out in mine.”

  “How’s the new place?” I ask. “All settled?”

  Gabbie blows out a long breath. “Almost. It’s been so much work.”

  I sigh. I’ll be dealing with that soon – moving. Peter was nice enough to give me three months in his apartment, after a lengthy discussion (fight), where I pointed out what he did to me after I’d been nothing but the perfect girlfriend for seven years. I would have loved to stay in the condo, but I can’t afford it, and it’s his.

  For now, he’s crashing in the guest room at his brother’s, probably sleeping in expensive Egyptian cotton sheets, knowing his brother. I don’t feel sorry for him.

  I study the different cats up for adoption. They’re all adult cats, which is okay because I don’t know if I could handle a kitten right now. There are quite a few, kept in several small rooms, but my favorites are the beautiful black cat, cute orange one, a skinny tabby, and also a friendly looking grey spotted white cat.

  I’m drawn to the black cat. I’ve always loved black cats – they’re so mysterious. This one is no exception. He stares out the window with a laissez-faire attitude, not paying us any mind. He’s very aloof but quite stunning; shiny dark coat and sparkling green eyes. I snap a picture of all of them to show Blake. I’m giddy at the thought of chatting with him again.

  “So which one is it going to be?” Kayla asks.

  I smile. “I don’t know. I need a second opinion.”

  “I like the orange cat,” Gabbie chimes in.

  “Me too,” Kayla says.

  “We’ll see,” I tell them. “I’ll come back tomorrow and make a decision then.”

  I send Blake four photos.

  So what do you think? The white and grey one was really friendly. My friends like the orange one, but I prefer the black one, so beautiful.

  __

  Follow your instincts. I’m not crazy about black cats but you’re right… he’s gorgeous.

  I’m heating my dinner in the microwave when a new message pops up on my phone. A photo. Then another one, and another one.

  These were my favorites. Thoughts?

  There are three photos. One long haired grey cat, absolutely gorgeous, a fat tabby, and a white cat with blue eyes.

  I love the grey cat, I write.

  __

  Me too, but long hair… it will be all over the house.

  __

  True… the white cat is also beautiful.

  __

  Yes, but he seemed a little skittish. I think I like the tabby.

  __

  He seems like he likes to eat… higher cat food costs. Lol!

  __

  He’s cute… he was very friendly. Besides, I like curvy cats.

  A smile stretches across my face and it catches me by surprise. I haven’t smiled much these past few weeks. November has just rolled in, and the days are gloomy. I’ll get kicked out of my place soon, and I still don’t have a job. Yet somehow, Blake manages to make me forget about all that and smile.

  Tabby, it is then, I write. I think I’ll go for the black cat.

  __

  It was very fun cat shopping with you! :)

  __

  Bye. :)

  36

  THE NEXT DAY, I adopt the black cat. First, I need to fill out a questionnaire, and go through an interview to make sure we’re ‘compatible’. Then I’m given a bunch of paperwork – instructions, a list of all his shots, and health history. I’m also given a starter kit; a box, the blanket he likes, food samples, a brush and a toy. I’ve already bought food, a litter box and some litter, and a cat carrier.

  I can’t come up with a name just yet so I just call him Kitty. I figure I will name him as soon as I get a better sense of his personality. After all the paperwork is done, and I’ve paid the costs, and we’ve managed to get Kitty inside the cat carrier I just purchased, with much effort, I walk away with my cat and my adoption kit.

  As soon as we get home, I unlock the carrier door. Kitty doesn’t move. For six hours! He finally sneaks out when I’m in the washroom, and goes and hides in the corner behind the plant. I figure I’ll just give him his space. I know it must be weird: new environment, total stranger. I leave some food and water for him in the kitchen, and set up his litter in the laundry room. He’ll find everything when he’s ready.

  I’m tired. It’s been a long day. I’m just getting ready for bed when my phone pings. It’s on the floor, hooked up to a charging cable. As soon as I pick up, an email notification pops up – it’s Serena Hollister. I can’t tap on my Gmail app fast enough, but as soon as I start to read the message, I know it’s bad news. She’s very sorry, and she goes on and on about how I am overqualified for the job.

 
I don’t care if I’m overqualified. I need money.

  My bank account is getting low, I didn’t get the job, and my new cat hates me. My chest is heavy and I know the tears are coming. I’m sitting cross-legged, crying on the floor. Kitty pokes his head in, and just when I think he might come over and console me, like a good pet should do, he lifts his chin and turns around and walks away, like he couldn’t give a shit.

  “Jerk”, I call out.

  I peel my phone from the floor.

  I hate my new cat. He’s a jerk.

  __

  LFMO! Tell me more.

  I’m in a real pissy mood now. Even Blake can’t cheer me up.

  Well, first off, it’s LMFO, not LFMO! And he’s a jerk because he’s completely ignoring me.

  __

  Well, he IS a cat. That’s what cats do. If you wanted attention, you should have gotten a dog.

  He’s not helping at all.

  How’s your cat? I ask.

  Awesome! He’s so sweet and loves to play. I got some cat nip, and he’s hilarious. You should see.

  I roll my eyes. Figures.

  Well, so happy for you. May you live happily ever after together.

  __

  I sense a bad mood, Freckles. Remember, I know you well.

  __

  I didn’t get the job, I write.

  __

  I’m sorry.

  __

  I’m running out of money, and I need to find a new apartment soon.

  __

  Why?

  __

  Because Peter and I are done. Officially. It’s over.

  __

  I’m sorry.

  __

  Are you really?

  __

  No. I was just saying that. You’re too good for him.

  __

  Yes, I am.

  * * *

  I wait for his reply, but it doesn’t come. Would he just leave me hanging? Too many people do that on Messenger.

  My phone rings, and I know it’s him before I even pick it up.

  “Hey, Freckles,” he says.

  I love the sound of his voice, the low timbre, the huskiness of it. He has a very unique voice.

  “Hey.” I don’t want to say more because I’m afraid I’ll break into sobs.

  “How are you doing?”

  Despite my best efforts, my voice cracks when I reply, “I-I’m… o-kay.”

  “Are you crying?”

  “N-no…”

  “You are.”

  “Blake…” I say through sobs. “I… don’t want to talk about it. I’m just tired. I’m going to bed.”

  “Wait… we need to talk this out.”

  “Tomorrow, maybe,” I say softly. “Goodnight, Blake.” I hang up, in shatters.

  He promptly calls me back. I let it go to voice mail. I just can’t speak to him right now, or anyone else. I’ve always been like this. When I’m hurt, I like to be by myself. Following my father’s death, I locked myself up in my room for days, only coming out for the funeral and burial. I wouldn’t speak to anyone; Momma, Marilyn, Tim, Mandy, even Blake.

  I’ve always thought that he was the one who pulled away after the accident, but in truth, I was the first one to put a fence around my heart, almost as if I was afraid to love anyone, for fear that I might lose them too.

  My phone pings, but I ignore it. I pop a Gravol to help me fall asleep, and crawl into bed.

  Tomorrow is another day.

  * * *

  I’m woken by a loud bang. My heart instantly kicks into overdrive. I scramble out of bed and grab one of the chunky candle holders Kayla gave me. It was originally a set of three, but now I only have two since I threw one at Peter’s head and broke it. My heart pounds hard against my ribcage as I venture to the door, where the banging is coming from. I hear my name. Could it be Peter? It couldn’t be – he still has a key. As I inch closer, my heart threatens to burst out of my ribcage.

  I’m scared shitless.

  37

  AS I GET CLOSER to the door, I recognize the voice on the other side; deep and a bit gruff. My pulse slows and my breathing eases.

  I pry the door open slowly – it always sticks. I see him through the sliver of open space. He’s disheveled; messy hair, scraggly beard, lounge pants, old worn sweater. Yet, he still manages to look sexy. Go figure.

  “Sorry for the banging,” are the first words out of his mouth as I let him inside. “I tried to knock but you weren’t answering.”

  “I was sleeping,” I point out. “You should have let me know you were coming.”

  “I did. I sent you a text.”

  “How did you even get in here?”

  He grins playfully. “Your mom gave me your address a while back. And I snuck in behind this couple on the way in. They were all over each other. They didn’t even notice me.”

  “Great! Nice security we have around here. Come in,” I say, and I’m suddenly self-conscious. I’m wearing sweat pants and an oversized SpongeBob SquarePants t-shirt. My hair is a curly mess. I catch a glimpse of myself in the hall mirror. Oh my god, it’s worse than I thought; raccoon eyes, from all the crying.

  But Blake doesn’t seem to see all that. He pulls me into him and wraps his arms around me. “It’ll be all right,” he says.

  I smile against the soft fabric of his sweater. Even after all these years, things haven’t changed much – he used to say this all the time. I fell off my bike once, and he gathered me up and hugged me. “It’ll be all right,” he whispered. I failed a math test once, “It’ll be all right,” he told me. An older kid called me a name that to this day, I still can’t repeat. “It’ll be all right,” Blake said, and then proceeded to beat the shit out of the kid. The only time he didn’t tell me, “It’ll be all right,” was when our dads died, because he knew it wouldn’t be, not for a very long time.

  I get lost in his hug. He smells so damn good. And he’s so warm. “Thank you,” I say. “Thank you for coming,” I tell him as I reluctantly pull away.

  “So where’s this jerk of a cat,” he quips. “I want to have a word with him. No one makes my Freckles cry.”

  I laugh out loud. “He’s not really the one who made me cry. It was Serena Hollister.”

  He cocks a brow, curious.

  “She was the one who interviewed me for the job,” I explain. “I just got an email from her tonight telling me I didn’t get it.”

  He takes a seat at my kitchen table. “I’m sorry, Maeve.”

  I shrug. “That’s life. It shouldn’t come easy.”

  “Yep, but it shouldn’t be hard either.”

  “Do you want something to drink?” I ask. “Sorry, I don’t have any beer or Coke.”

  He smiles. “I’ll take a glass of water.”

  I hurry to get him a glass, with ice cubes, like he likes. I catch him watching me when I turn. He grins. Was he really checking me out? How could he possibly think me attractive right now? I’ve never looked worse. If Peter were here, he’d run screaming.

  Kitty finally graces us with his presence. His steps are hesitant, his gaze searching and curious. He doesn’t quite trust us, but he’s willing to give us the benefit of the doubt. We’re right next to his food, after all.

  “There he is,” Blake whispers. “Beautiful. Very aloof. Black cats like to ignore people, act superior, look out the window, eat cat kibble, and nap.”

  I smile. “Who knows, maybe he’ll warm up to me soon.” I approach carefully and reach for him, but as soon as I get close, he dashes off.

  “Maybe he just needs more time,” Blake says with an adorable pout.

  “We have a love hate relationship,” I joke.

  “Kind of like you have with me,” he points out.

  I laugh. “I don’t hate you, Blake. Never have. I just hate how cocky you can be sometimes.”

  “You don’t hate it,” he tells me. “You secretly love it. It gets you off, admit it!”

  I shake my head. “You’re doing it
right now, being cocky again.”

  He smiles playfully. “C’mon, you love it. Don’t tell me you don’t want to come and sit on me right now.”

  A laugh escapes me. “Seriously? No, do I look like I’m in the mood?”

  “You look damn good to me,” he says. “I could get you in the mood, real fast. Help you forget everything.”

  I shake my head. He does look pretty delicious sitting there in the middle of my gourmet kitchen. Just the mention of sex brings me back to the feel of his touch, the taste of his mouth, and the sensation of him inside me.

  He leans back on the chair and spreads his long legs, in that casual way men have. “I’m ready and willing.” He winks.

  Before I can talk some sense into myself, my gaze is drawn to where it shouldn’t go. Those sweats don’t leave much to the imagination. Yes, he’s ready and willing all right. Suddenly, I forget about all my problems. There’s only him and I, and that kitchen chair.

  I walk slowly over to him, and set his glass of water on the table. His gaze doesn’t leave mine. I don’t think he’s thirsty anymore, well not for water anyway. He extends an arm, wraps it around my waist and draws me to him. I don’t fight. I go willingly, lift one leg and straddle him. His erection presses against my sex as he cups my face in his large rough hands. His kiss tastes sweeter than usual, like fresh strawberries. He tastes like berries but he smells like man. I press the palms of my hands against his unkempt beard. I’ve always preferred clean shaven men, like Peter, but there’s something to be said for the feel of a beard against your skin. Blake suits it; he’s so wild and intense, almost feral. His kisses are rough, but also soft.

  I don’t ever want to pull my mouth from his, lost in the taste of him. He slides his hands through my hair, and down the length of my neck. “I love your hair like this… wild,” he mutters between kisses. “Beautiful.”

  I rub myself harder against him, wanting that release. His laugh is muffled in the hollow of my neck. “Not so fast, Freckles.”