8. Miles
MILES
I officially hated mornings.
A car honking woke me up, then someone decided to run in the hallway, and before I could so much as roll over, my neighbor slammed their door. Why was everything so loud?
I pulled the covers over my head. Just like normal, Marmalade started purring, but today she sounded like a freaking lion and not an adorable house cat.
“Marmalade, please,” I groaned. “My head hurts and you are so loud.” She was no louder than any other day, but everything was amplified thanks to my great idea to go out drinking.
Another horn honked. Most days I wouldn't notice it. Today? It had me praying for silence and a set of noise-canceling headphones.
My mouth was dry, my face felt like the skin had been pulled tight, and my stomach was in that in-between state where I didn’t know if I should eat or run to the bathroom. Good times.
I threw the blanket off of me and slammed my eyes shut, the sunlight from the window was far too bright. I usually closed the curtains before going to bed, but then again, nothing about last night was the usual.
“What do you want?”
She rubbed her head against mine.
“I told you it hurts.” I pushed her gently away. “I’ll give you all the love after I take some Advil and drink some juice.”
She meowed. Our normal routine was her being fed first thing. She wanted her breakfast, and that was fair enough. She wasn’t the one who went out and got hammered.
I dragged myself out of bed. There was a glass of water on the nightstand. I couldn't even really remember putting it there, but go past me.
Most of the night was hazy, especially after I got home.
Barbara's husband brought me home, and there were stairs, lots and lots of stairs. Then… nothing. It was all a fuzzy mess. I picked the water up and downed it. I tried to piece together the night before. The only thing solid I remembered from the bar was that I had fun. That was good. Attending a work after-hours get-together and fighting with coworkers would’ve made this situation a thousand times worse.
Why was remembering everything so hard?
I hit the bathroom and brushed my teeth three times in an attempt to get the fuzz out of my mouth.
It already made me feel a little better.
I wandered out into the living room. My jacket was draped over a chair.
Why did I do that? I never did that. There was a hook I always used.
And my shoes were by the door, not under the table. How drunk was I?
Marmalade headbutted my leg. She was pissed I hadn't fed her yet, as if she didn't have kibble all the time. Spoiled baby.
“Hold on. I need to get the can out first.”
On the counter sat my keys, yet another item out of place.
I closed my eyes, replaying the night again. Crap! I went to the wrong apartment. I’d called him sexy—or I thought he was sexy. Gods, he was sexy. I covered my face as if that would make the memories go away. Please let me have imagined it all. Please let none of this be the truth.
I heard my voice calling him mean. That was definitely not in my head. I’d called him mean. And I did it more than once.
After getting her food, I plopped on the couch. How freaking embarrassing! I sat there willing it to all have been a dream as more and more details came to light.
It wasn’t until I was getting ready for the day’s errands that I saw the note—the one I’d missed in my hungover hurry to guzzle down the water.
Drink this. Not more of what you had last night.
Past me hadn’t left me water. It was a thousand times worse than that.
Not only did I go to his place, but he brought me home and came inside and possibly put me to bed.
That meant he couldn't be too mad at my mean comment, right? He’d left me something to prevent my dehydration and a note scolding me.
You didn’t do that for people you were pissed at.
I was never drinking again. Ever, ever, ever. I didn't care how many times my friends asked me to go drinking. I was going to be a Sprite guy from now on.
My head was a tad better, but nowhere near where it had to be for me to run errands.
I popped in the shower, hoping the steam would help.
As the hot water poured over me, I tried to drown out the memory of the night before.
If I didn’t think about it, maybe no one else would either.
That wasn’t how things worked, but I needed to lie to myself or spiral.
Unfortunately, I didn’t believe my own lies and replayed every moment, piecing the night together. At least I didn't puke. Or did I? No, I didn't. Please don't tell me I cried when I was drunk. I either laughed or cried when I was wasted. I could add calling people names to that list, now.
My head was throbbing less by the time I got out of the shower. I’d take it.
Marmalade stood there, waiting by the door. She knew I wasn't feeling well and always hovered when I was ill, even when it was self-inflicted. She was the best cat, despite being a beggar this morning.
“You don't know what happened, do you?”
She meowed.
“Care to fill me in?”
Another meow.
“I need to teach you English.”
What I wanted to do was pretend last night never happened, but I had to live here.
Acting like it didn’t happen wouldn’t make it go away.
But what did that leave? Knock on the door and apologize for being drunk?
What if his kid was there? Indigo didn't deserve to know about my behavior.
Crap! Did she see me in my drunken stupour?
Please tell me she didn't see me. Talk about being a horrible role model.
I could bake cookies as a thank-you. That was it. People liked cookies. Was that enough?
Marmalade meowed again, giving me an idea.
“Brilliant. Indigo loves you. She loved meeting you. Maybe we could invite them both over for a playdate, have the cookies here, and… I don’t know, something.”
A playdate with a cat was a thank-you. It wasn’t romantic.
It wasn’t weird. Not when I invited her dad, too.
Maybe it'll make up for both things at once.
It could be a fresh neighborly start, one where I didn't have to worry that he was gonna run away next time he saw me. It was at least worth a try.
I started to plan what I now thought of as a party.
I made lists of possible snacks for the humans and treats for Marmalade that Indigo could give her.
Both Marmalade and Indigo would love that.
My cat was very food-motivated and would give all the loves for a liver treat.
Of course, fish crackers for the people to be in theme.
I could even do fish sticks. Everyone liked fish sticks, right?
No. Kids didn't like fish. And besides, who ate fish at a party? Best to stick with simple.
An hour later, I had a plan. Odds were, they weren't even going to come.
I went through my kitchen drawer that held odds and ends, found a piece of cardstock, and cut it into the shape of a fish.
I addressed it to both of them, and pretended it was from Marmalade.
I read it a million times, added some glitter, and even put cat pawprints on it.
It was ridiculous, or cute, or maybe ridiculously cute.
But whatever it was, it was better than pretending nothing happened and willing it all to go away.
It was one thing to make the card and another to deliver it. I kept chickening out and leaving it on the counter for days.
“I can do this.” I walked up the stairs, my heart pounding the entire way, and I slid the invitation under his door. For a moment, I considered knocking and handing it to him, but I chickened out. Him not showing up was going to be bad enough. I couldn't handle a full-on rejection to my face.
Maybe they'd laugh and think it was a joke. Maybe he'd throw it away and not tell Indigo about it at all. Maybe he’d come. Whatever the outcome, at least I tried.
I jogged down the stairs and back to my apartment, closed the door, and leaned against it. “Well,” I said to Marmalade, “I guess we'll find out if he'll ever want to speak to me again, or if I managed to make a bad situation worse.”
She purred and meowed at the door.
“You think they're coming, sweetie?”
She meowed again.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
Hopefully, she was right.