“Minerva Cassiopeia ofthe Princess Diana Chunk! Get down here this instant, or we are going to be late.”
She glared at me from the top of her cat tower as I stomped my foot, slowly blinking her big blue eyes—like an asshole. Her tail swished from side to side before she turned toward the glass door leading to the porch, cutting off my rant in favor of ignoring it. I huffed, rolling my eyes as I walkedto the kitchen to get the freeze-dried tuna strips she loved. Minerva’s eyes followed me as I returned and sat on the couch, opened the pouch, and put three treats on the carpet.
My jerk-face of a cat stretched then did a one-eighty, choosing to stare at the wall rather than come down from her perch. It was like sheknewshe was going to the vet. Some innate kitty superpower told her to make it as inconvenient as possible for me to get her into the carrier. I learned my lesson as I stared at her, remembering how I broke the last cat tower, thinking the bottom perch could support my weight, and ending up canceling that vet appointment and nursing a massive bruise on my butt.
This time, I knew better, choosing to bribe her with treats—but it wasn’t working. I sighed, standing to slowly approach her. She still ignored me as I stretched to my tiptoes and put a treat beside her. I put another on the lower branch and threw two into her carrier for good measure. At least if she had to suffer through vaccinations and someone shaving her butthole, she would get treats for her trouble.
After an agonizing six minutes, where I pretended to scroll TikTok, she gobbled the first treat and slowly stepped to the lower perch. I stood, and she froze, a stripe of gray fur down her spine rising with her irritation, but there wasn’t time for more of her games. I grabbed her with both hands, tucking her under my arm like a football, and groaned, feeling her back claws dig into my stomach.
Once she noticed the treats in the carrier, she stopped struggling enough for me to close it, and I headed to the car. Several profanities slipped from my lips as I carried her down two flights of stairs. The drive was uneventful, with her yowling reduced to a minimum once we turned out of the neighborhood.
Her aversion to the carrier was nothing compared to her loathing toward Dr. Hansen and her vet tech, Melissa. Since Dr. Hansen’s pregnancy began, Minerva had taken to makingbiscuits on her stomach while Melissa handled the clippers. We’d see how she’d act since baby Eloise was born. Miller had shown me about a thousand pictures over the last month or so, claiming he was the best and most handsome uncle ever.
It was oddly adorable—watching him coo and croon over photos of the baby in little pink booties and a pair of crocheted handcuffs that had his mother, Beverly, written all over it. He’d make a great dad one day—if he bothered to get his head out of his ass and put a minuscule amount of effort into developing a relationship. Maybe this online dating bullshit would work for him. Wait.Nope.I wouldn’t wish this emotional rollercoaster on anyone.
I shook my head as another vet tech ushered us into an exam room, and I unzipped the carrier, brushing an obscene amount of cat hair from my leggings as Minerva dove behind the garbage can, thinking she’d done an excellent job of hiding from her nemesis. I ignored her, pulling my phone from my purse and swiping through my text messages. I’d left two unanswered from Miller but couldn’t deal with his optimism today.
Perhaps, instead of pushing him away, I should participate in some horizontal after-hours fun time so he could rub some of his unending optimism off on me. Could that be why my panties had been permanently wedged up my butt this last week—Miller’s and my lack ofintimatetime?Nope.It was a combination of Headmaster Hopkirk making no fewer than five remarks about meeting my beau, another lousy date, my car needing a new oil pan, and Minerva refusing to listen.
The only positive aspect of this week was leaving school a few hours earlier than usual so I wouldn’t have to spend my Saturday in a vet clinic. I also made sure any moredatesstayed firmly in the middle of the week. There would be no more of the Friday and Saturday night nonsense—that would be solely reserved forsecond dates.
My time would be spent with people who already knew and liked me—not with men who made passive-aggressive comments about my wardrobe and dinner choices.
This shifty attitude had to go.
I had yoga with the girls tomorrow and dinner with my dad on Sunday. There wasn’t time for this much self-deprivation.
“Well, hello Minerva. How’s my favorite purebred and her owner?”
I vaguely heard the door open and someone talking, but my brain continued to loop through a slideshow of the last week.
Like when my latest lousy date said I had no business ordering a cheeseburger.
Or perhaps when Mrs. Dawlish commented that my heels were not conservative enough.
It wasn’t all bad, though, remembering when Miller came over the other night to ask about the second date before leaning close to brush a strand of hair from my face and whisper filthy words about burying his face between my legs.
A warm, tingling feeling built in my belly, and I sighed, leaning back on the bench and pressing my hand to my stomach. Things would be much easier if I could hire a guy to be a stand-in boyfriend, but that would be like putting a Band-Aid on a bullet wound. Even if I fooled the school, the same problem would be there, with my bank account substantially lighter and my freaking father desperate to control the narrative.
Something had to give. I couldn’t keep wandering through my twenties, hoping every puzzle piece of my life would fit neatly together. It was just like when I noticed my pants were getting a little tight around the middle. I had to act—though waking up early on a Saturday to exercise was a personal pain point for me.
As if the universe heard my constant complaining about life, my phone beeped, pulling me out of my stupor as I recognized the notification sound from one of the dating apps.
“Emma? Are you okay? What’s going on?”
“Sex and endorphins.” I sighed, shaking my head as Minerva let out a particularly loud meow. My head snapped up in time to see Melissa rising from the floor with Minerva securely wrapped in a towel. Her tail flicked with irritation as I replayed the words I’d carelessly said aloud.
“I can’t believe I said that, Dr. Hansen.”
“Don’t think twice,” Melissa said, grasping my wiggling feline on the scruff of her neck so the vet could begin her exam. “Though I would love to know if you were talking about someone specific.” She winked, adjusting Minerva so she could prepare the vaccines.
“Arg. Don’t call me Dr. Hansen. You’ve been a friend of the family longer than Mark and I have been married. In fact, Miller and Magnum are in the back adjusting the sensors on the kennel lights they installed.”Jenna—not Dr. Hansen—said, helping Melissa tuck a wayward paw back into the towel as Minerva hissed, her attempt at escape ruined.
“Well, you earned the title of doctor.”
“Yes, but you’re my friend, Emma. Now, how are the diet adjustments going? Are there any improvements?” She scratched Minerva’s ears before checking them, along with her teeth and eyes. They switched positions as Jenna held on to the towel, and Melissa removed one leg at a time to trim between her toe beans.
“Yes, thank you so much for the suggestion and guidance. Her coat has improved since adding raw food to her diet. She doesn’t like eggs and lamb, but she loves venison, duck, and any kind of fish.”
