Chapter 5
THERE IS NO ELOQUENT way to say this—I’m screwed.
Once champagne bottles were popped and the party got really crazy, I snuck out the front door and headed home. I highly doubt that anyone noticed. They were way too preoccupied kissing Wilson’s butt and celebrating the end to my soon-to-be-promotion. With Wilson in charge, there is no way in hell he’ll ever promote me back to waitress. Not after he went out of his way to make sure I was demoted in the first place.
This promotion was my last hope—my last chance at getting a raise, making more money, and affording that road trip with Suzy. Now our final memory together will be here, stuck in Ridgewood instead of driving down palm-tree lined streets. It was a dream so clear it nearly felt like reality. And now Wilson has stomped all over it, ripping it away before it even had a chance to happen.
At home, to mourn the loss of my future, I collapse on the couch and never get up. My family passes in and out of the room like background characters in a television sitcom: Dad dropped off a bowl loaded with cookies-and-cream ice cream, Mom stopped by to watch the final fifteen minutes of a rerun of The Office with me, and Jillian came by to refill my bowl with two scoops of chocolate fudge brownie.
Thankfully, I’m six ice-cream scoops deep, and the sugar is perking me up a bit.
After I’ve watched two more episodes of The Office and skimmed through the Food Network, Jillian reenters the room. She looks ready for bed, her face scrubbed clean of makeup, and she’s wearing an oversize Joy Division T-shirt.
“Name one song,” I say in lieu of a greeting.
Jill gives my shoulder a shove and says, “Shut up.” She tucks herself under the blanket with me, cozying up so we are pressed shoulder to shoulder. “What happened at work? By the look of this sadness cocoon, I’m guessing it didn’t go well.”
I rest my head against her shoulder.
“That bad, huh?”
“Yeah,” I say, remembering the moment Wilson’s eyes locked with mine. “I think I might be stuck as a frog forever.”
Jill laughs. “I’m sorry. That sentence is just so ridiculous.”
We stare at the TV for a few moments. I watch the colors change on the screen, not really paying attention. What I want to do is hit Pause on the turning of time so my shift tomorrow never comes.
When the show cuts to a commercial, Jill says, “So, who’s the new boss?” She takes the ice-cream bowl, finishing off the final spoonful.
“Wilson,” I grumble. The sugar high is wearing off, and the sadness is trampling all over my serotonin.
Jill pauses. “Who’s that again?”
I groan. “I’ve told you so many times!” Julie would know exactly who he is. She would have done an extensive social media stalking campaign and memorized the name of his great-great-aunt.
But it’s Jillian who pokes me in the ribs. “Tell me again , dork.” When I finish explaining, she says, “I hate to break it to you, but having a boss you dislike will be a constant for the rest of your life. Ninety-nine percent of the time, bosses just suck. It’s unavoidable.”
Those are definitely not the words of wisdom I was hoping for. “Do you think your boss sucks?” I ask cautiously.
“My boss is my ex-girlfriend. It’s different.” She says it without a hint of anything—affection, anger, heartbreak. Nothing.
“I just really needed to save up money for my road trip with Suzy,” I explain. “Now Wilson will never promote me, and without the tips from waitressing, I’ll never be able to afford a car.”
“Well, maybe if you hadn’t hit Mrs. Clemens—”
“I didn’t hit her!”
“—then you’d be trusted to borrow one of our cars,” Jill finishes. “Actually, there was something I wanted to ask you.”
“Ask away,” I say, feeling defeated.
“Camilla wants to hire an assistant at The Rundown . Nothing glamorous. It’ll mostly be getting coffee, answering phones, maybe some filing here and there. The pay is pretty decent, though. It’s nineteen an hour.”
I gasp so loud it sears my throat. “Nineteen dollars ?” That’s enough money for me to briefly overlook my hatred for Camilla.
“Yes.”
“Like, one-nine?”
“Oh my God, Jackie. Yes . I take it you’re interested?”
“Jillian, if I don’t get this job, I very well may die.”
She rolls her eyes. “I’ll let Camilla know.”
“Do I need to interview?” I ask warily. I get too nervous, and my hands get all clammy.
“Doubt it. Cami knows you. She’ll hire you on the spot.”
Before I can fully understand the situation I’ve gotten myself into—aka working with my sister and her cheater ex-girlfriend—the front door swings open. Julie walks in, her hands filled with reusable floral bags. Her eyes are wide with excitement and her hair is coming loose from its bun. It is immediately clear that she is up to something.
“What’s going on?” I ask slowly. The last time Julie walked into the house like this, she announced that she had volunteered at a charity in town to bake three hundred assorted cupcakes for a bake sale. The bake sale was the next day . The five of us were up baking through the night.
Massimo walks through the door next, holding a—
“Is that a pet carrier?” Jillian asks. She says it in the same tone someone would ask is that a dead body?
Julie straight up drops the bags on the floor, turning to beam up at her fiancé. “Do you want to tell them, or should I?” Massimo, bless his shy Italian heart, smiles down at her. Jillian and I are quite literally on the edge of our seats when Julie turns to us, hands clasped under her chin, and shrieks, “We adopted a cat!”
“A what?” Jill basically hisses. I pry the ice-cream bowl out of her hands before her death grip shatters it.
“A cat!” Julie repeats, positively giddy. Massimo gently places the pet carrier on the floor. I spot a big pair of eyes between the metal bars. “We brought Massimo’s dog to the vet today, and this little guy was obsessed with us. Like, he wouldn’t leave me alone. I couldn’t leave without him.”
“You could’ve, and you should’ve,” Jill says. She is now pressed back into the couch cushion, holding her knees to her chest, as if Julie is about to unleash a lion in our living room.
Something about seeing always-tough Jillian crumble to a cat is hilarious.
“I, for one, love cats,” I say, earning a thankful smile from Julie. Suzy’s family has two Bengals that I’ve practically grown up with.
“You’re going to love him,” Julie gushes. Crouching down on the floor, she jiggles the carrier’s metal door. “He was so unbelievably sweet and cuddly.”
The door pops open, and out stomps a—
I gasp. “That’s a baby cow.”
“Julie, that is the biggest cat I’ve ever seen,” Jillian says.
We both stare in disbelief as this very overweight, black-and-white chunky cat runs over to the couch and, somehow , defies all laws of physics, squishing his big body beneath the couch like a slug.
A solid ten seconds of silence passes before a gentle “oh” leaves Julie’s mouth. “He didn’t do that at the vet,” she says.
“Perhaps he is scared, my love,” Massimo offers before walking back outside.
“Well, the vet did say it may take him some time to come around.” Julie walks toward the couch. On her knees, she peers beneath it.
“What do we do now?” I ask.
Jillian sneezes twice in a row. Julie is plopped on the floor, snapping her fingers as if that’ll coax him out. “We wait for him to come around,” she says. “This is only his temporary home until Mass and I move out.”
“What’s his name?” Jillian asks. She sneezes again.
“Uh, Jill? I think we’re finding out in real time that you’re allergic to cats,” I say. Her eyes are starting to water, too.
“Jillian isn’t allergic to cats. And his name is... Well, I haven’t decided yet,” Julie says.
I hang upside down off the couch, peeking underneath it. There, pressed against the wall with these huge alert eyes, is the cat. He is staring right at me.
“What if he never comes out?” I ask.
“Oh, I’m sure he’ll come out to eat,” Jill says.
“Hey!” Julie cuts her a glare. “Don’t fat-shame him.”
“How much does he weigh?” I ask, having never seen a cat that big. I didn’t even know they could get that big.
“Twenty-seven pounds,” Julie says. “We’re starting him on weight loss food. Apparently his old owners only fed him pasta.”
It makes me giggle, imagining him slurping up a plate of spaghetti. With all the blood in my body now rushing straight to my head, I sit upright on the couch. Jillian is still sneezing, rubbing her eyes with her palms, when Massimo walks back through the door carrying two industrial-size bags of cat food in his arms.
“He’s probably overwhelmed and scared,” Julie is saying, now sitting cross-legged on the floor. She is speaking mostly like she’s trying to assure herself. “He’s in a new home, surrounded by all new people. It’ll take him some time to come around.”
Massimo walks off to the kitchen with the bags, leaving the three of us alone.
“I don’t think this is what Mom had in mind when she asked about grandkids,” I say, making both my sisters laugh. I take another peek under the couch. The cat is now sprawled out on his tummy, watching me like a hawk.
“What do we name him?” I ask.
“Please don’t say Oreo,” Jillian begs.
Julie is suspiciously quiet. “That’s definitely not the name I had in mind.” She says it in a way that makes it very clear that it is, in fact, the exact name she had in mind.
I snap a photo of the cat under the couch and post it on iDiary with the caption “name ideas?” just to see what happens. “I bet he’d go viral,” I say, now texting the photo to Suzy.
“Very true,” Jill adds between sneezes. “The internet loves a fat cat. We ran an article on it a few weeks back.”
I prep for another photo when Julie smacks my hand away. “Sticking your phone in his face will only scare him more!”
Mom and Dad choose that moment to walk into the room. “Who’s sticking what in whose face?” Dad asks. They hover in the doorway, hand in hand.
Massimo picks this exact moment to walk in from the kitchen holding a small metal bowl. “ Amore mio , where should I put his weight loss food?” The thick Italian accent makes it a hundred times funnier.
“Whose weight loss food?” Mom interjects.
“Your daughter”—sneeze—“adopted a cat,” Jillian says.
Mom and Dad share a loaded glance. “Which daughter?” they say at the same time.
“Julie, obviously,” I say.
“He’s stuck under the couch,” Jill adds.
Julie’s face puckers. “He isn’t stuck .” She takes the food bowl from Massimo and places it on the carpet. Then she turns to our parents, flashing her forgive-me eyes. “He was just abandoned by his family. I couldn’t leave him at the vet. And it’s only temporary until Mass and I get a house.”
“I had a cat growing up,” Mom says. “I miss that little guy.”
“Fine,” Dad adds. “But you’re feeding him and cleaning up after him. I don’t want to so much as smell his litter box, Julie.”
Julie runs over and throws her arms around them. “You guys are the best ever.”
Beside me, Jillian snorts. “They’d let her adopt a lion if she asked nicely,” she whispers to me.
“Why didn’t we inherit her powers of persuasion?” I grumble.
“Julie has something that you and I lack—a sweet, angelic soul,” Jill says.
Then her entire face scrunches up. “What is that smell?” she asks. There’s a trickling sound too, like a tap is leaking.
Then it hits my nose—a sour, pungent smell starts to fill the air. “Eeeeeeeew,” I say, covering my face with the blanket. “What is that?”
Julie runs back over to the couch and sticks her head under it. When she returns, her lips are pressed into a thin line. “Uhm,” she says, “he peed.”
We all groan.