Thirty-Four
Ben
“Poor Mr. Spock. What happened to you, buddy?” I ask, as my cat arches his back to do his business while maintaining eye contact. I glance up at the ceiling, wondering if this is as awkward for him as it is for me. The timing literally could not be worse. Well, I suppose that’s not true. It would be worse if it happened about two hours from now.
“Sorry, Serafina!” I call down the hall, while opening the bathroom window to let the smell out. “I’m afraid he’s really not feeling well.”
Hurrying to the medicine cabinet, I get out my bottle of emergency kaolin-pectin for just such an occasion. I pour some onto a small plastic plate and set it down for him to lap up when he’s done in the litter box. Then I get on my rubber gloves and get ready to change out his litter. It’s got to be done immediately to stop the smell from lingering. I’ve probably been in the bathroom for a good ten minutes. I yell out an apology to Serafina and tell her I’ll be there as soon as possible. “I don’t think we should go out for dinner though!” I say. “Just in case Mr. Spock needs me.”
Serafina doesn’t answer, which I find a little odd. She’s not exactly what you’d call a quiet person, so I’m not sure what’s going on. Could she be mad that we’re not going out to eat?
Finally, Spock seems to be okay. He lies down on the cool tile floor and rests his face on my bathmat. I crouch and give him a few scratches. Then, after refreshing his litter box, I tie up the garbage bag, wash my hands, and hurry down the hall with the bag held as far from my person as possible. “I’m just going to run this to the trash chute and be right back.”
When I get back, I go straight to the living room, only to find it empty. “Serafina?” I call, walking over to the kitchen. “Where’d you go?”
No answer.
After a quick check around the apartment, I realize her purse is gone and so is she. I call her number and wait, tapping my foot on the hardwood floor while it rings and goes to voicemail. I hang up and text her.
ObiWan: Hey, where are you? I hope you didn’t go out to pick up supper for us. I really wanted to treat you tonight.
I stare at my phone like a I’m waiting for water to boil, but there are no bubbles coming and I have no clue as to why. That’s when I see some kind of odd orange stuff all over my coffee table. Gross, what is that and how did it get there?
It smells like some sort of cheese product. I wipe it up while I wait. Then I text Serafina again.
ObiWan: Are you at a takeout place? If so, I could meet you there so we can walk back together. Mr. Spock took his medicine and he seems okay for now.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later …
ObiWan: Are you okay? Did an emergency come up? Because I can’t think of any other reason you’d leave without saying anything. Text me back, so I know you’re all right.
Two hours and three unanswered calls later …
ObiWan: I hope you’re all right. Please get a hold of me as soon as you can, even if it’s the middle of the night. I’m really worried about you and I’m about to call the police.
The next day…
Turns out the police don’t go on red alert when your girlfriend walks out before supper. Once they got done laughing over poor Mr. Spock’s stomach ailment, Officer James said, “Maybe your girlfriend doesn’t like cats.” As if.
ObiWan: I see that you’ve posted on your app about today’s moon position and the weather, so I’m guessing you’re fine but aren’t talking to me for some inexplicable reason. Please call me so we can talk about whatever the hell happened. We still have to see each other every Monday.
I set my phone on the coffee table and start scrolling through Netflix for something to distract myself. It’s a rainy Thursday and I’m sticking around in case Mr. Spock has another flare up today. My phone rings and I grab for it, but instead of Serafina, it’s my mom calling. “Hey, Mom.”
“Hi, sweetie! How’s it going with Serafina?”
I made the mistake of telling her we were seeing each other and now I really wish I hadn’t. “Umm … I’m not sure that’s going to work out, to be honest.”
“Is it because she can’t get past how closed-minded you are?” she asks.
“No, actually, but what an impressive leap for you to reach that conclusion,” I say, sounding snarkier than I intend.
“Are you all right? Did she dump you already?”
“Already?” I ask, irritation rising in my chest.
“Oh, no, I didn’t mean already already, like I assumed she would be the one to dump you. I just meant … is it already over as in…” She rambles and scrambles to repair things, but let’s face it, she meant already. “Relationships rarely work out for me, not that I’ve been in that many.”
When I don’t answer, my mom continues, this time with some trepidation in her voice. “So you’ve been dumped?”
I let out a sigh and mutter, “Looks like it.”
“Oh, my sweet boy. Come home for a visit. I’ll make you sloppy joes like I used to when you had a hard day at school and I’ll even let you have as many potato chips as you want.”
I kind of do want sloppy joes now that she mentions it. Unfortunately I have a job. “I can’t, Mom, work is so busy right now. But I promise, I’m still coming home for Thanksgiving. Can you make me some sloppy joes then?”
“Of course. I hate being so far away from you,” she says with a deep sigh. “Listen, you forget all about that woman. And I’m going to tell Lita and Lynda to get off her silly Live for Your Star Sign app.”
“They’re on her app?”
“We all are. It’s really great, but we could never support someone who wasn’t nice to you. Even though Lita has already used it to redecorate her living room and she says it feels like an extension of her soul.” She adds, “But, for you, we’ll boycott it and even leave her bad reviews. She’s clearly got something wrong with her if she can’t see what a catch you are.”
“Clearly,” I tell her, wishing I knew what was going on. Needing to change the subject to something that doesn’t feel like shards of glass to my heart, I ask, “How’s your garden doing these days?”
“My garden is of no consequence, dear. You are all that matters.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I tell her, wondering what I can say to make this conversation end. If I know my mom, and I do, she’s not going to rest until she pries every ugly detail out of me. The problem is, I have no idea what happened because Serafina won’t return my texts.
Thirty-Five
Serafina
Ben sends me forty-seven texts before telling me that he’s not going to contact me again. The ball is in your court, he said in the last text. Whatever. Who in the world would have ever expected a nerdy astrophysicist from NASA to be a cheater? Are there no professions safe from philandering pigs?