by Aven Ellis
It doesn’t hurt that Maxime is here, too.
Though he can like my Instagram photos whether I’m living in California or across town.
There was a tiny part of me that hoped he would reach out and say he could show me around Boulder when he saw I was moving here, but instead he simply said “Congratulations,” on my social media post about it.
Since I know crap about love and dating—the one solid thing I learned from Is It Love?—I should be grateful. I’d no doubt screw it up if he did ask me out.
I retrieve my phone from my Louis Vuitton bag, my pick-me-up splurge for the hell that I endured after the show aired—which, as some people gleefully pointed out, I should have expected when I signed up for a dating show—and prepare to record the donuts in the case.
Enough about Maxime. Time to celebrate my new beginning.
Starting with a latte and heart-shaped donuts.
***
The snow picks up as I exit the donut shop with a steaming coffee in one hand and a bag of two chocolate-ganache filled, heart-shaped, pink-frosted donuts covered with sprinkles. My celebration is officially ready to begin.
I wander back up Pearl Street, which is lovely. An eclectic blend of shops, bars, and restaurants, all one block from my apartment in the historic Whittier neighborhood of Boulder. I have a wonderful view of the Rockies from my patio on the third floor of my modern loft building, and I love the neighborhood that I will call home. With Victorian-style homes and tree-lined streets, I find the area a charming mix of old and new.
I haven’t had much time to explore the area, but I’ll get to do that as part of my job, which will be a blast. That’s what I love about TV. Being on camera and bringing unique stories to people energizes me like nothing else. Meeting people and sharing their stories is something I feel I was born to do.
A chalkboard sign outside a shop catches my eye, written in pink and white chalk with hearts drawn all over it:
BE MY PURRFECT VALENTINE—Adopt-A-Cat event today!
I stop. Oh, this would be great for a lifestyle feature. I take some pictures of the sign and the pet food store that is hosting the event. Then I decide to head inside to find out more information.
Maybe they’ll have another one next year, and I can be here live to promote it, I think.
I move my donut bag to the hand with the coffee and push open the door. It’s a few minutes past nine, and since the shop is filled with cats and cages and loads of volunteers but zero customers, they must have just opened.
“Hello, may I help you?” a woman says from behind the counter. She pulls leashes out of a shipping box as she greets me.
“Hi, I was wondering if I could get some information about your Adopt-A-Cat event today?” I ask, smiling at her.
“Oh, Greg can help you; he’s with the rescue group,” she says. “Greg? Can you help this woman, please?”
A tall, lanky young man in a knit cap walks toward me. “Hi, I’m Greg. Are you interested in a cat?” he asks hopefully.
“Oh, no, I just want to know more about your program,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m Skye Reeve, with Boulder Live, and I thought this might be a great organization to feature on the show at some point.”
“Oh my God, you’re Skye Reeve!” a young woman squeals, rushing up toward me. I notice she is wearing a sweatshirt with Greek sorority letters on it, and my guess is she probably attends the University of Colorado. “I totally watched you on Is It Love? Tom never should have picked Miley. Our whole house watched you every Wednesday, and we couldn’t believe he didn’t pick you!”
I smile the practiced smile I have when people talk about the show. Inside, I want to run from this part of my past.
A Usain Bolt kind of run.
“That’s so kind of you, thank you,” I say. “But things work out for a reason.”
Even if I’m still searching for that reason.
“Can I get your picture?” she asks, nodding excitedly at me.
Crap. I ran out this morning in my puffy black parka and ripped up jeans. I have a cream blanket scarf covering my neck, a matching knit hat on my head, and my braid peeking out the side. I’m wearing my black cat-eye glasses and have no makeup on.
I look like the Michelin Man, with rubber snow boots as an accessory.
Yet, this is reality, so I need to say yes.
“Sure,” I say, continuing to smile.
The girl runs around next to me and snaps my picture.
“Thank you. Oh, you have to see the kittens. They’re so cute,” she exclaims.
“You’re on TV?” Greg asks.
“Yes, Boulder Live,” I say.
“No, she was on that dating show Is It Love?” the girl says knowingly. “Skye is famous! Cara is going to die. She was obsessed with your wardrobe. Let me go get her; she’s in the back.”
Greg smiles. “Sorority volunteer project. Come on, let me show you the cats and what we do.”
Greg escorts me to the cages as more people begin trickling into the shop. I see cats with info cards explaining their histories. Greg tells me how they rescue cats from different situations and foster them until they can find forever homes.
“Kittens are obviously easier to place, but even then, we get some special ones that need certain homes,” Greg explains.
“Like what?” I ask.
“Well, take these two,” Greg says, walking over to a cage with two tiny gray kittens. “These kittens are very, very shy. We have people who have returned cats after a day because they weren’t affectionate enough.”
My mouth pops open. “After a day?”
Greg sighs. “Yeah. It’s frustrating. It can take time to adjust. Think about it. They’re scared. Not all cats are confident going into a new home. It can take a long time to adjust. They might hide under the bed or sofa and only come out at night or when people are gone. It takes time to build confidence and trust with some animals.”
I look at the two tiny kittens in the cage. They are backed up in the corner, eyes wide in fear as I look at them.
I know how they feel.
This is how I felt when Is It Love? started airing. I was scared every morning to log onto social media. I knew going on TV would cause people to talk about me, and in theory, I understood that I would need a thick skin.
Knowing it and living it are two different things, however.
With the media crush after the show, I wanted to hide. While some of my friends on the show ran with the media spotlight and built their public personality brands, I hid and questioned every decision I had made.
It took me a long time, but with the help of my new friend JoJo, I began to find my confidence again.
I know I can do that for these kittens.
“I think I’m interested in these two,” I say to Greg.
“Really?”
“Yes. I just moved here, and I want to give them a home.”
“They are a bonded pair,” Greg says, “meaning they go together.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Want to hold one?”
I nod and set my coffee and the bag of donuts on the table. “Yes.”
“These are Russian Blue mixes,” Greg explains. “I think there might be some Maine Coon in them because of the long coat and the hair on the ears and between the toes on the paws.”
Greg is speaking Latin to me now, but I nod as if I understand.
He opens the door to the cage. “Come here, Natasha,” he says, picking up one by the scruff. “Don’t worry; this doesn’t hurt her. It’s the same way the momma cat would pick them up.”
I nod as he shows me how to hold the kitten. The warm ball of gray fluff is placed in my arms, and I know she’s petrified.
“It’s okay, little one,” I murmur to her.
I become aware of more eyes on me. People are now taking pictures with their cameras, but I go into shut-down mode and continue to stroke Natasha’s tiny head.
“She’s four months,
already spayed. Her brother is named Boris, and he’s been neutered. They are microchipped and have all their shots, too.”
“This is all included in the adoption?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“It’s Skye with a kitten!” someone shouts.
More people begin to come around, and I feel Natasha grow tenser in my arms.
The sorority girl comes back with her friend, and her friend looks at me in amazement.
“Holy shit, it’s really you!” she gasps.
I hand the kitten back to Greg. “Um, I suppose I can get all the supplies here for them?”
“Absolutely,” he says, putting Natasha back in the cage. “Why don’t you do that while I get the paperwork ready for adoption?”
“You’re getting the kittens!” the first girl cries.
“Yes, after I get supplies,” I say.
“Oh, I’ll help you,” the counter woman says, moving around. “I’m sorry I didn’t know who you were earlier.”
“That’s okay,” I say, grateful that she didn’t.
“Follow me,” she says, “I can show you everything you’ll need to be a kitten mom.”
Before I know it, she’s heaping stuff into my arms. I have a bag of organic kitten kibble in one hand and a litter box in the other. She hands me cans of wet kitten food, and I shove them into the pockets of my coat because I can’t hold anything else.
I look like I’m shoplifting cat food.
“You’ll need a good scratching post,” she continues, walking down an aisle and oblivious to the fact I can’t hold anymore. “And a carrier.”
As I follow behind her, a can of cat food falls out of my coat pocket and rolls across the tiled floor. I bend over to pick it up, and more go flying out, hitting the floor and rolling in different directions.
Shit!
Cans are rolling all over the place, and I’m scrambling to pick them up in my puffy coat, which makes it hard to move. In the process, I drop the bag of dry food, which explodes onto the floor, sending kibble everywhere. The brown bits are stuck in the fringe of my huge blanket scarf.
And oh crap, is it stuck in my braid?
I’m wearing kitten kibble.
Tuna flavor, apparently, if the scent is any indication.
“Oh dear, I should have grabbed a cart. I guess I’m excited being around a TV personality,” the sales woman says, laughing nervously. “Let me get a broom.”
As I put the litter box down and begin flicking kibble out of my hair, I become aware of people laughing. I look up from my crouched position, and of course, I’m being recorded.
Super.
With as much dignity as I can, I stop cleaning up the kibble and opt to gather up the canned cat food instead. The time it takes to walk to the front of the store and ring up my purchases feels like an eternity. I summon all of my strength and try to remain as poised as my humiliation will allow.
After my items are bagged up, Greg goes over the adoption agreement, my responsibilities as a pet owner, their medical files, and tips for socializing Boris and Natasha. I make arrangements to get the kittens and the items I’ve purchased tomorrow, so I have a chance to kitten-proof the apartment before they come home.
By the time I’m ready to go, my coffee is cold, so I ditch it. I say goodbye to my fur babies-to-be and take my donuts. I realize I haven’t checked my phone since I’ve been here, so I pull it out as I exit the store and glance down.
My phone is lit up with notifications.
I furrow my brow as I step out onto the sidewalk.
I see an urgent text from JoJo:
IGNORE SOCIAL MEDIA TODAY
A sinking feeling hits my stomach. I wish I could ignore it, but I can’t. I go to Twitter and enter “#skyereeve” and boom! My phone is filled with tweets about me. The first one is from the tabloid that has made my life hell with false stories this past year. They have posted photos of me on the floor of the pet store, glasses falling down my nose and kibble in my hair with the headline:
WILL SAD SKYE CELEBRATE VALENTINE’S DAY ALONE?
Finally seen in public again, with kittens and bingeing on donuts, apparently Skye isn’t over Tom
What? Bingeing on donuts? I haven’t even eaten one yet. What fresh hell is this?
I scroll down, and there’s a picture of me getting donuts. Then the worst ones are of me in the pet store, with cat food cans falling out of my stupid Michelin Man coat and then a close up of me with kibble in my hair.
I’m mad at myself. Once again, I can’t just be the new reporter in town, or a normal woman who is picking up donuts and cat food.
Thanks to the dumb-ass decisions I made last year, I will never be “just Skye.”
I remember how Cade and his teammate, Jude, tried to help me deal with the negative media last fall, and I know they are right when they say I know the truth. I know myself and the efforts I put forth; the rest of it doesn’t matter.
But I resent this. I resent not being able to eat donuts without it being a sad binge over a man I no longer love. I don’t appreciate the fact that I can’t be alone on Valentine’s Day without making me out as desperate for Tom. In the back of my mind, though, I’m not surprised. The station has been sending out press releases announcing my hire. It’s my first time back in the TV limelight since Is it Love? ended. The tabloids will be interested for a while, and specifically when I get a new love interest that isn’t Tom, and then the furor should die off again.
An icy freezing wind whisks across my face, and snowflakes catch in my eyelashes. I blink them away as my phone continues to go off in my hand. I’m done with this. JoJo is right. I’m not reading any more about pathetic Skye who still loves Tom and is parading around Boulder with cat food stuck in her braid while eating a dozen heart-shaped donuts on a broken-hearted sugar bender. I put my phone on silent as I can practically count the seconds until my agent will call to remind me to keep up my image, even when taking out the trash, and continue walking home.
Where I’ll enjoy my donuts and pick kibble out of my hair in complete, ignorant-of-social-media, bliss.
***
Okay. I’ve probably gone a wee bit overboard regarding Project Kitten-Proof.
As I get ready for bed, I think of all the things I’ve done today to prepare. I’ve put protective covers over my cords and moved the cleaning supplies to an upper cabinet. I’ve stored away any plastic bags, and I’ve vacuumed twice. I even read the sheet of tips Greg gave me and now know to keep closet doors shut and toilet lids down.
In addition to creating a safe home for Boris and Natasha, I’ve unpacked my kitchen supplies and organized my wardrobe. I went to the DMV and got my Colorado license, and then I researched some potential doctors that are on my insurance plan. I desperately need to get a few décor items, like art and some cozy throws and baskets, but that will have to wait for now.
I finish flossing my teeth and reach for my brush. I need to go grocery shopping, too, but I’ve been so tired from the move out here that the idea of going up and down each aisle of a new grocery store trying to learn the layout seems exhausting.
Although if I got dressed up and put a smile on my face, maybe I could convince fans of Is It Love? that I would rather be grocery shopping alone than with stupid Tom. That might be a good enough motivator for grocery shopping.
Best of all, I remained unplugged the rest of the day. I find days when I do this to be more productive. I’ve gotten better about letting comments roll off my back. I knew reading hate messages and accusations that I am drowning myself in donuts, going to become a cat lady, and shoplifting cat food would probably suck up half my day. Once you fall down the rabbit hole of reading comments, it’s hard to stop. And after you binge on social media, you end up feeling gross about yourself and remorseful for giving in.
So, it was nice to have a day not hearing from my agent or the trolls. I got a lot accomplished, and I feel good about myself.
I flip off the light, shivering as I walk across t
he hardwood floor in my bedroom. I’m grateful for these thermal pajamas and my down comforter, but I think I’ll add an electric blanket to my shopping list. It’s freezing here, and once again, I wonder if I’ll ever get used to it.
I crawl under the covers and reach for my phone on the nightstand, taking it off the charger. All right, my disconnect from the world is over. I won’t check email or Twitter, just my texts and private messages. That should be harmless enough. I have a public account for myself on Connectivity, but a private one, too, reserved for friends only.
I sink back into the pillows, the business of the day hitting me and exhaustion seeping into my bones. I yawn as I swipe open to my notifications.
As soon as I do, one immediately jumps out at me, one that jolts me wide-awake and causes me to sit upright in bed. My heart stops. I can’t breathe as I read the notification over again, to make sure I’m not imagining it. But it’s there. And it says:
You have a Connectivity Private Message from Maxime Laurent.
Chapter Two
I have a message from Maxime.
He has never sent me a message.
My heart is in my throat as I dare to click it open:
Skye, I promised myself if I ever thought you needed me, I would not make the same mistake I made in Brussels. I won’t sit by and merely watch. So here I am. I saw the pictures in that online tabloid after the game tonight, and after so long of not seeing them cover you, I wanted to make sure you were okay. I know you’re not sad—your eyes tell me that—but invasive photos like that must be upsetting. Are you okay?
Maxime is reaching out to me. He wants to make sure I’m okay.
I read his sweet words over and over, thinking no man has ever done anything so wonderful for me. It shows genuine concern.
