Chapter 2
I’m still pretty staggered every time I get home to this apartment off of Newbury Street in one of Boston’s most esteemed and expensive areas.
It might not be without its flaws, but it’s way better than the one I’d lived in after graduating from college, and I don’t need Patrick to show up and fix a million things.
While the singular bathroom and bedroom are smaller than I’d like (as in, they are miniscule), the kitchen works for what I need, but it’s the massive living room with its bay windows that sold me on living here.
Good thing I’m a food lover and not a full-time cook.
And that loving food affords me so much.
It’s way better than the apartment I’d had after graduating college.
Megan Madonna is still working in her office nook in my house, and she coughs. “Diana? You’re scheduled to leave for Puerto Rico tomorrow.”
Her words stop me in my tracks.
“That’s tomorrow?”
Damn, I thought the bedroom and sleep were just a few feet away.
“I’ll pack your bag. No worries.”
She’s just the sweetest.
“Go home,” I demand. “You’ve already got too much on your plate. Love you,” I call out as I march into my mini bedroom and stand paralyzed in front of my closet.
“I can take ten minutes to help you pack.” Megan Madonna follows me. “I love you too, you absolute weirdo.”
I sigh and accept her help. There’s a rush of us both rifling through drawers and my little closet, bumping into each other in this little room, and it’s not long before we have me packed and she is released from my madness and out the door.
Surprisingly, neither of leaves this experience with bruises.
My head hits my pillow as I call Patrick.
Before he can even say hello, I’m ranting. “This is stupid, yes? A dumb thing I forgot about. Going by myself? Does this sound pathetic?”
“Um, probably? But specifically this time?”
“Probably I should go or probably I should cancel? Do better with answers! Who vacations alone? Maybe it’s empowering though?”
“I don’t know what we’re talking about.”
“Sorry, sorry. I have to go to Puerto Rico and review a hotel and stuff. It’s sponsored. Meaning paid.”
“You have to go to Puerto Rico?” There is a groan-laugh. “Revise that. You get to.”
“Beaches, and sun, and lying around are not my thing. I’m a redhead with fair skin and zero tanning ability or interest. I probably need a hat company to sponsor me.”
“Oh, that sounds utterly horrific! I’m sure there won’t be one umbrella in sight, and you’ll burn to a crisp because no one has invented sunscreen. Or hats.”
Patrick’s feigned horror is not lost on me.
I settle a bit. “This hotel does have sister restaurants that I’ve been dying to visit. Not to mention the actually genuine and authentic PR food they’ll be plying me with. I’ve heard their crab is like none other.”
He doesn’t hold back. “Just have some damn fun and relax. Read a book or five. Get out of Boston for a minute.” Before I can object again, he about yells, “Fly away! Do the beach thing!”
After I still don’t reply because I just don’t have words, he softens his voice. “Diana? Embrace this chance. You help everyone else but you. You’ve always done that. You’ve always had to make decisions, find solutions, solve adult problems.”
He’s referencing my family. How I grew up with all the stuff. Riddled with neglect. With super crazy parents. And I don’t want to think about any of that right now.
What I’ve known—or accepted—over the past few years is that while I may be surrounded by people nearly constantly, I don’t actually have many friends. Honestly? Maybe just one.
Patrick.
It just breaks my heart that I love so many of my connections online and can’t trust most people that I meet offline.
“Patrick, how do you feel about beaches?” I ask, trying to entice him to join me. “Like, this next weekend?”
He laughs. “While I do love me a beach, Katrina has an art opening at her gallery this week.”
“Booo to the wife. Booo to Katrina!” I joke.
Patrick married her about five days after we graduated.
That girl he’d had eyes on the night we met.
A commitment that I thought was insane at the time.
While I wanted to hate her for scooping up my best friend when I hadn’t fully vetted her, Katrina had turned out to be annoyingly wonderful.
Endearing, charming, and genuine. Quiet, shy, and reserved.
She’s an artist whose paintings in our school’s gallery showings blew me away.
While I knew nothing about art, even I could appreciate that her shit was cool.
She’s the total opposite of Patrick, but so the best balance for my best boy, the wild extrovert.
I shake myself back to the present. “I did see a cute bikini I might like to buy,” I say. “While beach vacations are not normally my thing, I could do this one.”
“Throw yourself into that bikini and that vacation like mad! And luxuriate in whatever stupidly posh place they send you to. Deal?”
“Yes, boss.” I grin and hang up.
After deleting tons of emails, I message the hotel in Puerto Rico and let them know I’m thrilled to be flying out tomorrow and to be their guest.
Before I can even think about turning in for the night, I have to take cups of food and descend the precarious steps from the back of my apartment to feed the feral cats.
As I make my way down the fire escape and into the alley, my heart kind of breaks to see so many animals scramble toward me when I again arrive with food.
Maybe they need me as much as I need them.
Despite how I try to care for them, they are always still starving, neglected, and desperate.
The usual ones are there when I drop food into containers, including the group of kittens and their mother, who I’ve been watching over for a few weeks now.
Boston can be loud, and I’m used to the noise of late-night visitors to Newbury Street, but it can also be so beautifully quiet here at night.
I love my neighborhood, even this borderline creepy alley, which is somehow not as smelly as one would think.
The sky always seems darker from this fire escape, a bit hidden from the city lights, making it a cozy spot.
Suddenly, there’s unexpected movement in the alley, and I smile when a little peanut of a cat shows up.
Such a darling gray striped kitten. How could his mom not love him the most?
She and the other kittens chow down, but my guy seems to flounder, staying behind, even after she and his siblings run off.
I bring him bowls of food and water and sit for a bit.
But I also die a little because he dines and drinks alone, without his family.
But what do I know about feral animals? Maybe this is normal?
But it doesn’t feel right. After basically sitting vigil to make sure he’s okay, I do feel odd when a scruffy little raccoon shows up, looking like a baby that’s lost its mother, and I watch my little boy feed beside another scavenger.
He’s got a partner in this sad and grotesque feral life.
Megan Madonna will now have new instructions about feeding the raccoons too.