Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 91058 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91058 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
When I get home, I push open my apartment door with an armful of packages I just picked up from the mail room downstairs. Don’t ask me what any of it is. Late at night, I have no self-control. When those targeted ads reveal to me some revolutionary water bottle or a never-before-invented bra, I’m such a sucker.
My cat Moira (aka Moira Rose) sits on the windowsill in the living room with her long white tail dangling off the edge, waving back and forth with fluid, lazy motions. She makes no move to greet me, not that I expect her to. On any given day, I’m barely allowed within a few feet of her. If she had it her way, I wouldn’t enter the apartment at all. I’d shove a can of extremely expensive, putrid-smelling cat food through a slot in the door and leave her the hell alone.
My dad gave her to me as a law school graduation present. “She’s a British Shorthair. I read all about the breed. They’re friendly and smart, supposed to make great family pets.”
I’m not sure if he read the wrong Wikipedia page or if my British Shorthair is just defective, but if I had to list adjectives to describe Moira, “family friendly” wouldn’t make the cut. She’s sassy, arrogant, and mean. Smart, yes—too smart for her own good. More than once, she’s figured out how to slide the deadbolt on the front door so I couldn’t get into my apartment until the building’s super could come down and disassemble my lock.
She’s the queen of this dwelling, and she’d like me to never forget it.
“Did you miss me today?” I ask cheekily.
I swear she rolls her eyes. Her bored expression tells me she was hoping I was flattened by a trash truck on my way home, but alas, since I’m here, I might as well feed her.
I set down my packages, wincing when I see the one from La Perla. I remember the lacy black lingerie set I ordered last week on a whim. Now, in the light of day, it just seems cheesy as hell. Who am I going to wear that for? Jasper?
He’d choke.
We don’t do any of that. I mean, I don’t think he’s against it or anything, but he’s never been open in that way. He’s a traditional guy when it comes to most things. Even discussing sex makes him blush, like it’s some weird shameful thing. The lingerie will get sent back or, more likely, because I have zero extra time for running errands at the moment, stuffed into the farthest recesses of my panty drawer.
Moira jumps off her window perch and screeches like, Open your crap on your own time. I’m hungry. Inside the cupboard beside my refrigerator, I grab her food—all seventy-five different things I have to mix together twice a day to prolong her crabby little life according to the fancy vet I take her to.
“You know some cats live in the streets and eat garbage.”
She’s not listening; she’s licking her butt.
Once I set down her bowl on the hardwood, she nudges it over to where she prefers it: smack dab in the center of the kitchen runner I splurged on when I moved into my apartment a few months back.
“No, please, try to get as much of that smelly fish ground down into the rug. Thank you.”
I sigh and look to the mountain of packages and junk mail on the counter. Then I decide to forgo opening any of it in lieu of opening the freezer. Dinner tonight will be the finest Ben & Jerry’s ice cream purchased from the finest dingy corner store down the block. I crack the lid to find I have less than half a pint left, which is disappointing, but I’m certainly not hauling my ass back out into the world to get more, and ordering it on a delivery app is out of the question. With all their weird fees and tips, another pint would cost more than that ridiculously priced La Perla set.
I work my bra off through the sleeve of my shirt and grab my laptop and phone from my work bag before finding the section of the couch that allows me to burrow deepest between the center cushions. Once my fuzzy throw blanket is covering my legs and my favorite candle is lit—oh baby, it’s on. Short of nuclear war, I will not be getting up from this spot for the remainder of the night.
I’m a little reluctant to check my phone. I’ve been ignoring Jasper’s text messages all day. We don’t talk all that often during the week; we’re both busy. He’s in and out of court, and I never know when I’ll be able to reach him. I don’t want to accidentally call him if he’s in the middle of something important, so we usually reserve communication for the end of the day, or really, every other day. Or on the weekends, actually. My friends from law school think our entire setup is weird, but it’s not weird. We’re adults. We don’t need to send each other cutesy text messages and memes every five seconds.