Figuring me out.
Considering, I’m sure, how I’m going to behave now that we’ve taken this friendship to a whole other dimension. New level won’t cut it—this is something entirely singular.
Now what?
How is he going to treat me tomorrow?
Better question is: How am I going to treat him?
18
Desdemona
God, that sound—it’s like two cats in heat. And I would know, because I am one—a cat, not one in heat. Still, the last time I heard screeching and caterwauling like that, it was me, the one and only time I got loose in the city and prowled the block for almost an entire evening before Girl found me and hauled me home.
Ah, I remember it well.
Sweet, sweet freedom.
I found an orange tabby who was a little worse for wear (if I’m being honest) but liberal with the liberties—if you catch my drift.
She let me stick my tiny—
“Oh yeah,” comes a tortured moan. It’s so long and drawn out, it gives me pause, and I glance up from licking my paws.
More muffled sounds come from the couch—in the same spot where I lie every afternoon, sunning myself, and now that spot is ruined because Girl is clearly defecating on it, or loose with the liberties.
In my spot.
My sacred spot.
How. Dare. She.
There are rules in this house, and she’s breaking them.
Rule 1: What’s mine is mine.
Rule 2: What’s hers is also mine.
Rule 3: No pissing on the furniture (I learned my lesson the hard way, as a kitten, when I defecated on the furniture and spent the night locked in the bathroom with that grotesque contraption they call a litter box—gag).
Rule 4: Don’t touch my stuff.
Rule 5: It’s all my stuff.
Rule 6: Don’t attack the company.
I consider rule six up for interpretation; after all, what is company, really, but family who barges in unexpectedly and Boy, who bitches like a stray tom and smells twice as foul. He bathes in water way too often when his tongue would do the trick just fine.
I spit, narrowing my eyes toward my spot—the spot where I lazily bask, day after boring day.
Girl and Boy are there, except only one of them is on the couch. Girl has her bottoms off, sitting on the furniture, Boy is on the floor in front of her, and she’s hissing and twitching like she might need the veterinarian, or to be fed. Maybe she’s hungry; I’m never quite sure what humans want.
My keen eyes scan a scratching post—I believe Girl refers to that one as a coffee table—food and snacks no longer in sight, and maybe that’s what’s wrong with her? She’s still hungry but he’s not feeding her? Typical. It seems everyone is always begging for food from Boy.
The whole business of theirs is loud and inconvenient, and I contemplate sauntering over to break up the party, because let’s face it: now that I’m awake, my stomach is telling me I could use a scrap of tuna. Or that dry shit Girl feeds me.
She’s too cheap to buy the canned goods. I wasn’t born yesterday; I know for a fact some cats get the good stuff. Trust me, I’ve seen the commercials on the talking box in the living room; I’ve seen the cat that looks exactly like me, eating from her crystal goblet. Where is my glass bowl? Where is my soppy, canned sustenance made with real fish and meat and juicy drippings?
I lick my chops, mood getting sour.
Real fish. Real meat. Juicy drippings.
From pet owners who actually love their animals.
I scowl.
The one and only reason I haven’t attacked Boy’s dangling bits is the simple fact that he’s begun leaving me scraps. Sometimes Girl forces it on him, but lately, when she’s not looking, he hands me food from the palm of his stinky hand, and that’s why I keep him around.
Boy is disposable.
And Boy is causing Girl to make way too much fucking noise.
I mew.
Mew again, louder, because they’re mewing too and couldn’t possibly hear me over the squawking.
Ugh.
Get out of my spot!
They have their places to sit, I have mine, and humans should know their places.
Sullen, I march to Girl’s bedroom and jump on her bed, wishing I could slam the door shut behind me and drown out the horrific sound of their screeching.
19
Brooks
My friends are in rare form tonight.
From the minute I arrived at The Basement, I knew they were going to be a handful; it’s Friday night and none of us are in the mood to go bar-hopping, yet not a single one of us wanted to go home and be alone.
Alone, Brooks? When are you ever alone? You have Abbott now, keeping you company.
I swirl the ice around my highball glass, watching the amber liquid go round and round and round, mesmerized by it. Thirsty but not for alcohol.
Thirsty for Abbott.
The thought makes me frown, and when I look up, the guys are watching me; they exchange knowing looks. Phillip goes so far as to tap Blaine in the bicep to get his attention, and they both raise their brows at one another.
“Our boy looks defeated.” Phillip grins, straight teeth a blaring white from over-bleaching. Shine a black light on the guy’s smile and he looks like the Cheshire cat, they’re so idiotically perfect.
“Our boy looks like he’s got something on his mind.” Blaine agrees, nodding along. Stroking the facial hair he’s been unsuccessfully trying to grow for months. It’s patchy, looks ridiculous, and makes him appear younger, not older. “Or should we say someone on his mind?”
“What are you talking about? I’m not defeated.”
Have they found out about Abbott? Do they know I’ve been spending all my free time with her, or are they just giving me a hard time to feel out the situation?
I haven’t been forthcoming with either of them in weeks, since starting the club. Haven’t given them any life updates, social updates, or work updates. Barely text them back, almost never call anymore. Even when one of them calls me at work, Taylor hasn’t been given permission to patch them through to my office. I just…haven’t been feeling it lately. Hate lying and hate the nauseating dip in my stomach, my loss of appetite, lack of concentration—but most of all, I hate the lustful thoughts I’ve been having about Abbott.
I wish I didn’t have to let her down and disappoint her.
So.
I’ve avoided my friends and being in this place for far too long. Which is why I dragged my ass out tonight.
I needed a well-placed reminder about my priorities and where my head needs to be, and I don’t mean between Abbott Margolis’ legs.
“Sorry bro, you look like you’re going to become the first loser in the Bastard Bachelor Society.” Phillip crosses his legs, taking a drag of his scotch on the rocks. Sips it so loud I can hear it from my spot a few feet away, the pompous windbag.
“You wish.”
“Actually, I do wish. Jags spring training will be approaching soon enough and I, for one, am looking forward to catching a little preseason practice. Need to work on my tan.”
The Jags practice facility is out west, and I try to fly out and watch a few games when the weather in the Midwest is complete shit but glorious and sunny where they train.