Page 11 of Whispered Promises

I’ve spent so many hours trying to understand how others can be cruel to animals. Do they just not feel? How does that even feel inside?

My constant state is so many feelings, so many emotions, so many thoughts happening all the time, just piling all up on top of each other. Sadly, I no longer see a therapist; the cost felt too high when the money could go into the rescue.

So here I am instead, standing under the shower, crying out my feelings, and knowing there’s nothing I can do other than to just keep trying.

Turning the shower off, I step out and wrap the towel around me before standing in front of the mirror.

My reflection looks…tired.

At twenty-six, I should look a lot more carefree and refreshed, but even the skincare routine I follow religiously can’t perform miracles.

After I throw on a pair of cosy pyjamas, I head into the kitchen and locate a container filled with what looks like…vegetarian spaghetti bolognese. My stomach growls in agreement, with my comfort food being anything pasta based. I throw it into the microwave and grab some cutlery, impatiently waiting the few minutes needed for it to warm up.

Juggling the piping hot container over to the kitchen counter, I retrieve my laptop along the way, and get settled on a bar stool to eat. I pull up the photos and videos I took today at the rescue, then start editing and compiling a few social media posts to schedule for the week. As much as Anita is opposed to social media, she has seen the benefit of it with the additional stream of income and donations that are helping to support the animals.

It’s hard not to smile as I upload one of Buttercup lying in the sun as she lets me plait her fringe into space buns. It should get some good hits. The furry Highland cow has a solid following, and people have been suggesting different hairstyles to try for her.

Steph comes through the door just as I’m finishing up the last of the admin for the rescue, her smile wide.

“Hey, sweets, how was your day? I just had the best date with that girl I met at the coffee shop earlier this week. She bought me flowers!” she exclaims in a rush. She twirls around and flops onto the sofa, clutching the bouquet of yellow roses to her chest. Happiness radiates brightly from her.

“Stop it, that’s so cute. What was she like?” I join her on the sofa, and we spend the next hour talking through every detail of the date.

Eventually, I notice the time. “I think I’m going to call it a night.” A loud yawn stretches my cheeks, and I drag myself from the comfy nest of cushions and blankets. “Honestly, this is so amazing for you. You need to message her. Don’t wait around for her to reach out first. She gave you flowers on a first date. That’s so thoughtful and means you have something to message her about. Send her a picture of them in a cute vase as thanks maybe?”

Happiness brims in my chest at the sight of her inhaling the scent of the bouquet, even with the niggle of jealousy brewing deep in my gut.

“Oh…and just to let you know, I have a kitten in my room temporarily, but the mesh door cover’s on. He shouldn’t be here too long. He’s very cute. Night!” I quickly ramble as I walk over to my room, rushing through the mesh cover.

“What! We talked about this! No more⁠—”

I snick the door closed and cut off her half-hearted protest. I know she isn’t angry, but I can’t face another chat about not giving in and bringing animals home. Plus, she’s somewhat preoccupied in her post-date haze.

With my back to the door, I slowly crouch and scan the space for the spicy little kitten. Whilst the room isn’t huge, it’s still a reasonable size and furnished with a double bed, covered in a teal-blue linen duvet set and pushed up against the back wall. A window takes up the wall to the left of it. Below the window and next to the bed is a small dark oak stained bedside table; a chest of drawers sits against the wall to the right of the door, and the far right wall has a set of double doors that opens to a built-in wardrobe. Thick-piled forest-green carpet covers the floor, and my walls are painted in an even deeper green. The feeling is always instantly calming, with low-level lighting and lamps surrounding the space.

Little Moshi isn’t in any obvious hiding spots from what I can see, but a quick glance shows that he has used the litter box, so he crept out at some point.

“Hey, handsome, I hope you're settling in okay. It’s been a long day for us both, so we should get some sleep, huh?” I slowly walk over and clear out the litter, then draw the thick teal curtains closed and slide under the covers.

SIX

BRYNN

Max was up and out early this morning to head to the rescue with Rosy. A fact I only know due to already being awake and in the kitchen when he left. It’s an anniversary today that always feels bittersweet, grief and gratitude intermingling together, so sleep had eluded me. Plus, after Max coerced me…well, it was probably not coercion, per se. As much as I can pretend to be put out at the last-minute idea, I thrive in the kitchen, so I needed to be up to start getting things sorted. Having someone new to plan a meal for is always exhilarating. Whilst I know the others all appreciate and love my cooking, there’s something fulfilling about having someone new to cook for.

Growing up had been difficult until Noah’s parents had adopted me; it had just been me and my mum. She’d had me at seventeen, and with no support, it was a struggle for her. My biological dad wasn’t in the picture, and my maternal grandparents had turned their backs on us. As an adult, it’s easier now to look back and see that my mum just couldn’t cope. But as a child, it was hard having a detached parent.

Whatever money was left over from paying the rent was usually spent on alcohol, so there wasn’t always enough food to feed me, let alone cook.

On the days she was passed out and unable to take me to school, I’d sit for hours with the TV on for company, watching the cooking shows and loving how food would bring everyone together. I’d craved that: the feeling of creating something for someone, of spending hours pouring my heart into something for another person to enjoy.

Now I’m making the dream happen. I live with people I can cook for, run a small online business selling baked goods made in our kitchen, and blog my recipes for subscribers who love to make the food I cook.

Granted, I’m not rolling in money, but I’m content. Would it be nice to have a partner to share my life with? Yes. However, that seems more difficult to attain than it was to build my dream career. Being a natural caretaker and the person who likes to cook has made women look past me, dismissing me as too “submissive” or too “soft” and instead preferring a bad boy.

But would a bad boy greet you when you get home with a home-cooked meal? Know the comfort foods you need based on your cycle? Ask you about your day? Do the housework and not wait for approval? Well, I’m sure there might be the odd unicorn out there, but instead I’ve been stuck at first dates and one-night stands. Nothing more.

A tinge of bitterness slithers through me; it’s thick and dark.