by Belle Brooks
“Get. The. Fuck. Out. Of. Here.” She pronounces each word singularly and with purpose.
“He did. I swear he did.”
“Why?” Indie dips her eyebrows, causing my heart to grow heavy.
I’m not pretty enough. Skinny enough. Good enough for a guy like Matthew Muller. Go on, say it. I turn away and focus my attention back on the computer monitor. “Don’t worry about it.”
Indie leaps upright and throws her arm around my throat, hugging me from behind. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said what I did. It wasn’t meant to come out like ... I didn’t mean to say it in such a way.”
“What did you mean?”
“As far as I know, and don’t quote me on this, but apart from Callie, Matthew Muller does not see any other woman. You know Callie sees him off the books too. A lot. The only reason he books her in the first place is to keep her business going, and Kathleen’s pockets full. Matthew and Kathleen are good friends.”
“Does he love Callie?”
Indie’s lips are so close to the tip of my ear it makes me feel uncomfortable. “Alice says he doesn’t. Alice says he’s never been in love. Never.”
Matthew has never been in love. I’ve never been in love, but then again, I’ve never dated either.
“Indiana, shouldn’t you have left?” Kathleen's voice booms from behind me.
Indie plucks her phone from my hand, and after she does, my neck and shoulders become absent of her weight. “Yes, ma’am. I was catching up on some files I fell behind on.” She takes a shaky breath. “On my own time, of course.”
“It doesn’t look like you were doing much filing—more so gossiping. I don’t like such chatter in this office. I only need one of you working in here at a time.”
“Understood. I’ll go. See you tonight.”
“I won’t be in. I’m going to be away for a few days. Callie will run the place in my absence.” Kathleen looks wrecked and not her usual put-together self.
“Are you okay, Kitty?” I ask softly.
“Yes. Why wouldn’t I be?” she snaps.
“No reason.” I turn back to face my computer before Indie and I look at each other at the same time. Without a word spoken between us, I know we’re subconsciously sending a message to each other. A message saying Kitty’s never taken a day off. What the hell is going on here? Why does she look so worn down?
“Have a great break.” Indie slings her tote bag over her shoulder. She pulls her long, deep purple locks across her lips. “I’ll message you,” she mouths from behind the strands of hair.
I nod.
As Indie walks around the opposite side of her desk, she glances at Kathleen and says, “I’ll see you when you get back.” She then offers me a subtle wave, and she’s out the door.
Great! Now I’m left to deal with the Kitty monster and my Matthew Muller situation on my own.
Ring, ring, ring.
I stare at the headset and freeze.
Ring, ring, ring.
“Answer the phone, Melinda,” Kitty snips.
I pick up the headset and put it in place.
“What has gotten into you lately?” Kathleen tuts before I hear her stomp away.
“Welcome to Kit on High, you’re speaking with Mindy. How can I be of service?”
“You could go on a date with me. What do you say?”
My heart stops beating. My palms become clammy. Matthew Muller. Oh, dear God. He called back.
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 loo
k 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?
Chapter Eleven
I walk towards the bedroom door but stop when my mobile phone chimes. I’m hopeful it’s a message from Arlie. It’s not.
Mum: Are we still chatting tonight?
Me: Yes, give me a minute. I’ll Skype you in five. Sorry, I’m running late.
I enter the bedroom. Chris turns away from me, stripped of the gym gear he was wearing when he arrived, now standing in his birthday suit.
“It's called my hot body, biatch, and I know you appreciate what you saw.”
I shake my head and close my eyes, no longer able to see his pasty white, yet extremely toned butt cheeks. “I saw nothing.”
“Sure, you didn’t. I’m going for a shower. I know the bedroom is about negative four degrees, but me turning the air conditioning down to freezing has a purpose. You’ll need to wait to find out why, though.”
“Okay,” I say slowly. “You’re so strange,” I add. “I’m going to go Skype Mum, because she’s waiting to hear from me, while you wash up.” I open my eyes to see Chris take a step closer to the en suite. I quickly close them again.
“Perfect. Oh, and while you’re out there, pick up the book you threw and put it back on your chair. You’ll get back to it. Trust me, it’s worth it.”
“Yes, boss. Can I open my eyes now? Are you out of sight?”
“You sure can, sugar. I’m covered,” he says with a Southern drawl.
“Chris!” I squeal.
“What?” He’s stood posed like a model with his backside again filling my vision. “Hot damn, can I get an amen?”
“Oh my God! Go shower and put some bloody clothes on.”
“Oh my God is right. I hear that line a lot.”
“Chris!”
“I’m going.”
***
The dial tone for Skype is ringing through the speakers of the laptop. I wait, and I wait until finally, Mum accepts the call.
“Hello, sweetheart. I didn’t think you were going to make contact tonight. It’s nine already, and you said you’d Skype me at seven thirty.”
“I got busy, Mum.” Suddenly, I’m gifted a vision of her large saggy cleavage. “Mum, you need to push the screen back.”
“Why? I see you fine.”
“Well, I see your boobs, not your face. Every time, Mum. Every single time.”
“I didn’t hear you complaining when you fed off my bosoms until you were over the age of two. Most kids give up in the first year—not you, though. You refused to give up the breast, full stop. I had to force you off. It was like trying to get a drug addict to detox.”
“Mum, I’ve heard this story more times than I care to remember. Tilt the freaking screen.”
The camera’s position shifts back. “Can you see me now?”
“Yep. Better.”
“What’s wrong?” Mum brings her face so close to the camera I have a visual of only one of her hazel brown eyes. “Your face is all puffy and blotchy. Have you been crying?”
“Allergies,” I lie unconvincingly.
“You’re lying. You’ve been crying.”
“Whatever you reckon.”
“Did something happen to upset you at the brothel you work at? You really need to quit that terrible job.”
“Mum, it’s an escort agency.”
"Same thing. I just feel your talent is wasted. Why don't you consider going back to a hospital and—"
"No." I shut her down, my voice colder than I mean it to be.
I can't think about going back.
Not after what happened.
"Well, let's talk about something else then, dear. How's the love life?"
“Is that Mel, Mum?” I hear Bridey say.
“Yes, dear, it is. Melinda's been crying. She’s all blotchy.”
“Scoot over and let me see,” she says as Mum’s face zooms out and Bridey’s comes into focus. “Oh, you have been crying. What’s happened?”
“Nothing.” I shift uncomfortably in my chair.
“I hope it’s a guy.” She places her hands in prayer in front of her pointed chin, the same shaped jawline our mother has. It’s no dramatization when people say Bridey is the spitting image of our mother, and I’m the girl version of our father.
“Mind your business.”
“Your Mother Teresa image is getting old,” Bridey says.
“What’s wrong with you? Why would you call me that?” My annoyance is evident.
“Because it’s true.”
“Whatever.”
“Now girls, stop the bickering.” Mum flicks her dyed black locks.
“Yes, Mum,” we say in unison.
“So what made you cry? For real?” Bridey pulls her brown locks over her shoulder, twisting the ends.
“A book, okay? It was a book I’m reading. The guy was an arsehole, and it made me cry. There. Now you know. Go on, have a good laugh at my expense.”
“All men are arseholes. Lane’s an arsehole often, I’ll have you know.”
“Your father is an absolute dipshit about eighty percent of the time.”
“Mum!” I yell.
Mum picks at her nails with her eyes turned down. “It’s true. Just this morning, he got me all peeved off.”
“Here we go.” Bridey rolls her eyes.
I giggle.
“Where do I start? He didn’t make the bed. He was the last out of it. He left his jocks on the floor. Thirty-five years of marriage and I’m still picking his littered clothes up from the floor. He’s no better than a teenage boy.”
Bridey laughs.
“Then he slurped his cereal. You girls know how homicidal I get when people eat loudly. I wanted to stab him in h
is wrinkly neck with my spoon.”
“Mum, stop it.” I’m laughing so hard.
“Lane. Oh, my God. You know what he does?” Bridey asks.
“Do I want to know?” I reply, screwing my face up.
“He picks his toenails in the lounge.” Bridey fake dry-heaves. “He leaves them in the chair, and I have to dig around, finding them.”
“Eww. That’s foul.”
“Right? I swear some nights I want to grind them all up and put them in his food.”
I’m laughing so hard now I’m crying.
“Some days, I want to poison your father. He’s like a man-child who’s never going to grow up. You’re probably living the life right by being single, my dear daughter.” Mum nods. “Toilet rolls. They never change them. Dishes. They never wash them. Towels. They leave those suckers on the floor all wet, left to get mouldy. They fart in bed. They fart through sex. They fart in the car when the windows are rolled up—”
“They fart all the time, and it stinks. It’s rotten like something crawled up their hairy arses and died in there,” Bridey continues.
“Don’t even get me started on your father’s snoring. If it were legal to suffocate him with a pillow, I’d do it tomorrow. No, I’d do it today, right now.”
“Where’s Dad anyway?” I say through my tears.
“Well, you won’t believe me, but he’s at the gym. He goes to the gym every day now. Tonight, he’s gone late because Crawly—you know Crawly from down the road?”
I nod.
“He’s also on a health kick, and they need to hold …” Mum does air quotations. “… ‘each other’s hands’ while they exercise.”
“Mum, you sound bitter about your marriage. You realise this, yes?”
“I’m not bitter. It’s called resentment. You stay married for thirty-five years and come tell me you don’t want to go all murder on the dance floor on your husband’s face with a knife.”
“Mum!” Bridey and I say simultaneously.
“Thirty-five years of marriage and come talk to me then,” Mums says so matter-of-factly.
Bridey snaps her neck to face Mum. “You love Dad, right? Like, we don’t have to worry about being children of divorce?”
