Chapter 21
Arugula purrs in my lap, kneading against my shorts that thankfully shield my skin from his claws.
“You’re sort of a monster, huh? Are you aiming for employee of the month at the biscuit factory?
” My words are absent as I read over the blog post I’ve just made, though I reach down and trail my hand along his back.
Arugula’s purr answers me, and just as I complete another swipe along his back and refresh, two notifications appear at the corner of my screen.
Well, that was fast.
Last week’s drama still has a hold on me, it seems, because I brace myself as I click the link to take me to the post about Easterly Ridge, I feel my body bracing like I’m about to face an impact that will mentally jar me from here into next month.
“Don’t be dramatic,” I mumble to myself, crossing my ankles under the desk.
“This is your job, Persy, so suck it up.”
Maybe it’s because I got fucked within an inch of my sanity two nights ago, but I’m confident enough to check both comments without my new gut-churning anxiety.
Though when I read them, I’m not sure if I should be relieved or worried.
Where’s the guy in the comments who threatens to scare you? Did he show up? Will we get a reveal if the two of you are dating?
Patiently waiting for our new favorite commenter…
They mean Shiloh, obviously, though they don’t know his name or anything about him. I almost wish I’d taken a photo of him with his mask for my blog, and my lips twitch in a rueful smirk. Who knew that my stalker would end up being a little famous to my followers?
“Your owner is a psycho,” I tell Arugula with a sigh. “Like, he’s certifiable, I’m pretty sure.” The long-haired cat turns its green eyes up to me with a look that definitely feels judgy, but I tell myself I’m just anthropomorphizing him.
Clearly, a cat isn’t judging me for my life actions.
But I relent a second later and my shoulders drop as I groan.
“Yeah, okay, you don’t need to look at me like that.
I’m also probably certifiable because I let him do really depraved things to me that you’re way too young to know about.
” Giving the cat a frown, I finally stand and let him climb to my shoulder, which is quickly becoming his preferred perch to ride around like a king while I do chores or put food together.
Thankfully for his safety, I barely cook.
So instead of balancing over a hot pan, we’re normally just staring at the microwave together.
My hand comes up to help him balance on my way to the kitchen, though as we stare into the bowels of the half-empty fridge, it occurs to me that I have nothing I want to eat.
Arugula makes a sound of disapproval, his whiskers twitching, and only relents when I close the fridge door and reach back up to scratch between his ears.
“You act like you’re not just eating cat food,” I accuse, even though we both know I’ll be feeding him leftovers.
“I don’t make enough money to get food that your palate would approve of.
” He meows at that in a way I can only see as argumentative, for all that he’s just a very spoiled cat.
“Maybe I should speak to your owner about you, huh?”
Even though I don’t know how to get in touch with him.
My chest twists at the thought, though it certainly isn’t the first time it’s come up in the past few days.
While Shiloh knows where I live, and my schedule, I know nothing at all about him except he’s been at some places where I’ve been before—which I want to talk about—and he has a really cute cat who I love cuddling with.
Oh, right, and his ability to make me come until my soul is ready to leave my body should be studied and distributed to all the dissatisfied women of the world.
“I have to go get food.” There’s no help for it. What I’m craving cannot be found in my refrigerator or cabinets, and I’m certainly not about to attempt to cook a real meal with the freezer-burned chicken that waits amidst sad bags of vegetables in the freezer.
Those are from another time, I’m pretty sure. A time of delving down the ‘easy healthy meals’ side of social media that temporarily gave me motivation to make my own food to cut down on unhealthy macros.
And it lasted all of two days, if I’m being honest with myself.
“See you soon, little cat.” With my keys in hand, I walk out the front door and lock it behind me.
Mrs. Elmore is out on her porch, rocking back and forth on the swing her son had installed for her a few months ago.
I can never tell how she feels about it, though I’ve noticed she uses it more whenever he’s visited recently.
I wonder if it’s a wistful thing, or she just feels guilty about not using it enough.
When she waves at me, I wave right back, but I’m in my car before I can really consider jogging across the street to have a conversation with her.
In my experience, she’s normally not as talkative when she’s swinging and running her fingers over scrapbooks or old quilts she made with ‘the girls’ back in the day.
She waves again when I pull out between our houses though, and if I thought she’d appreciate it, I’d offer to bring her back something for dinner. But Mrs. Elmore is firmly against fast food, I learned pretty quickly, and compares everything to what her own mother used to make.
I can’t deal with another story about how her mother was the best chef this side of the Ohio River tonight. Nor can I deal with a lecture on how I need to improve my cooking skills if I’m ever going to find and keep a man.
“I know it’s old-fashioned,” Mrs. Elmore has sighed to me many times before with an air of motherly patience.
I’ve heard it so many times that her voice is clear in my ears as I drive along our dead-end, deserted street.
“But there’s only one way to keep a man, and that’s by keeping him wanting more of your cooking.
They’re simple creatures, really. You have to treat them like a stray dog you’ve taken a fancy to if you want them to do more than visit when it suits them. ”
My lips twitch into an unseen smile at the memory. While I’ve never managed to keep a man—or find one I want to keep—the advice feels pretty sound, if I’m honest with myself.
My trip is quick, at the very least. I settle for the nearest fast food place and play whack-a-mole with the value menu.
With no idea what I want and only the gnawing hunger in my stomach to guide me, I end up with a hellish, questionable combo of fried food and tacos, along with an extra large frozen cherry limeade with fresh limes smooshed against the plastic of the lid.
Even the boy in the window looks at me like he has questions, and I consider it a new low or an all-time high to be judged by a fast food worker for what I’ve ordered.
But he doesn’t ask, and I don’t really have an explanation for any of this, honestly.
‘Let your stomach be your guide,’ feels like something out of a children’s movie parody that would just have him questioning me even more.
Back home, Arugula even sniffs the bag with a few twitches of his fluffy nose, and looks up to glare at me with pale green eyes.
“Well, I didn’t buy it for you anyway,” I mumble, rolling my eyes and placing the food on the sofa like an underwhelming buffet.
From there, I line up my food in order of best to least desirable, and it’s unsurprising that I spend the first few minutes of the movie I turn on chowing down on chicken nuggets.
Arugula even gets one, though he only gnaws on the breading and swipes it onto the floor like it’s offending him, causing me to roll my eyes and scoop it up to toss it back into the bag.
By the time I’ve eaten everything except the mac-n-cheese bites that are getting soggy, I’m both full and exhausted.
The week’s anxiety and staying up late at the sanitarium have finally truly caught up with me, and I barely manage to check my email and adjust myself to be Arugula’s personal mattress before I can feel myself drifting off to the dulcet tones of teenagers getting murdered by chainsaws on my tv that provides the only light in my otherwise dark house.