Chapter 21
NOT MY CIRCUS, NOT MY CAT
DALLAS
I stood in my kitchen, wondering exactly when my life had turned into a sitcom. The yapping hadn't stopped for thirty-eight minutes. I knew because I'd been timing it, hoping there was some kind of world record I could submit to make this torture feel productive.
Ricky, all eight pounds of him, had positioned himself by the kitchen island, his tiny body vibrating. Every bark seemed to say who the hell are you, and what have you done with my mother?
“Listen, buddy.” I crouched down to his level for the fifth time. “We've been over this. Your mom will be back. She's just at her office dealing with...” I paused, realizing I was explaining business logistics to a dog. “You know what? Never mind.”
He responded by increasing his volume, which shouldn't have been physically possible given his size.
Meanwhile, Karen sat on my granite kitchen island like a calico Buddha, completely unimpressed by my dog-whispering skills. She hadn't moved in twenty minutes, just sat there judging my inability to calm down one tiny dog.
“You could help,” I told her.
She slow-blinked at me, which I was pretty sure was cat for not my circus, not my monkeys.
My kitchen, which had always been my sanctuary, now looked like a petting zoo had exploded in it. There were food bowls by the breakfast nook, a litter box hidden discreetly in the laundry room, and various toys scattered across my previously immaculate hardwood.
I'd just bent down to attempt peace negotiations with Ricky again when my front door burst open.
“DALLAS DODGER.”
I flinched.
Cheyanne, my sister’s, voice could have shattered glass. She stormed into the kitchen, her blonde hair whipping behind her. Austin, my brother, followed at a more leisurely pace, already grinning.
“You got married?” Cheyanne continued, waving her phone like evidence in a murder trial. “And I had to find out from Instagram?”
“Technically, Sam posted it, not me,” I offered weakly.
“Oh, well that makes it SO much better.” She stopped her gaze, shifting to Karen. “Why is there a cat on your kitchen island?”
“That's Karen.”
“You named a cat Karen?”
“I didn't name her anything. She came with the wife.”
Austin, who'd been suspiciously quiet, lost it. He doubled over, laughing so hard he had to grab the counter for support. “The wife,” he wheezed. “You really just said the wife like you picked her up at Target with cat supplies.”
Ricky, apparently deciding these new humans were also threats, redirected his yapping toward them.
Austin looked down at him. “What is that?”
“That's Ricky. He's a weiner dog.”
“Let me guess,” Austin laughed. “Also came with the wife?”
I nodded.
Cheyanne had already made herself at home, pulling out one of my barstools and settling in like she was preparing for a long interrogation. “Okay, start from the beginning. And I mean the actual beginning, not whatever PR version Sam fed to social media.”
Remembering what Sam said earlier, I decided to opt for silence. I didn’t want to lie, but I knew if she pushed, I would have to. I couldn’t take the risk of ruining Davina’s reputation.
I grabbed a beer from the fridge, mostly to buy myself time. “Want anything?”
“Answers,” Cheyanne said sweetly. “With a side of explanation and a large helping of what-the-hell-were-you-thinking.”
“I'll take a beer,” Austin said, still eyeing Ricky like he might attack at any moment. “Is it safe to move?”
“He's eight pounds.”
“Eight pounds of pure rage, from the sound of it.”
I handed Austin a beer and leaned against the counter, trying to look casual while my brain scrambled for the story Davina and I had barely practiced.
“We've been seeing each other quietly,” I started, the words feeling strange in my mouth. “Through Brooke and Matt.”
“How quietly?” Cheyanne's eyes narrowed. “Because you tell me everything.”
“Clearly not everything,” Austin muttered, then yelped as Karen suddenly appeared next to him. “Jesus, it moves.”
“She moves, and her name is Karen.” I took a long pull of my beer. “We wanted to keep it private. You know how the media gets.”
Cheyanne wasn't buying it. “So private that you got married without telling your family?”
“It was spontaneous. We were in Vegas for Brooke and Matt's wedding, and…”
“And you thought, Hey, you know what would be fun? Traumatizing my sister by getting married without her there?”
Ricky waddled over to Austin and started sniffing his shoes. Austin froze like he was being inspected by a tiny, furry TSA agent.
“Is he going to pee on me?”
“Probably,” I admitted.
Austin had bravely extended a hand toward Ricky, who sniffed it before giving a single approving lick. “Huh. He's kind of cute when he's not yapping.” He looked up at me. “So, when do we meet her? The wife?”
“We're still figuring out the logistics of all this.”
“The logistics of your marriage.” Cheyanne's voice was flat. “How romantic.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I really don't.” She hopped off the stool and started prowling around my kitchen, taking inventory of the pet invasion. “What’s her name?”
“Davina Lawson… Or now Davina Dodger.”
“Wait, Davina Lawson from the Big Girl Panties Podcast?” I nodded. “The same woman who called you a walking mid-life crisis?”
Austin choked on his beer. “She said that? On air?”
I nodded again. “Among other things.”
“And you married her?” He looked genuinely impressed. “Damn, bro. I didn't know you were into being roasted.”
Karen chose that moment to knock my fruit bowl off the counter. It shattered on the floor with a crash that made Ricky resume his yapping. The cat just sat there, tail twitching, looking directly at me.
“I should clean that up,” I said, grateful for the distraction.
“You should explain why you got married without telling us,” Cheyanne countered, but she was already grabbing the broom from my utility closet. She knew my house almost as well as I did. “Mom's going to murder you, by the way.”
“I know.”
“No, I don't think you do.” She swept the broken ceramic into a pile.
“When are you telling them?” Cheyanne asked, dumping the broken bowl in the trash.
“And don't say you were hoping to avoid it because…” She stopped, eyes widening.
“Oh my God. You're getting divorced, aren't you? This is some weird PR thing.”
“No,” I said quickly. “We're not getting divorced.”
Not for six months minimum, anyway.
She studied my face with an uncomfortable intensity. “Dallas Dodger.”
“We got married because we wanted to get married,” I said, which was technically true at the time, even if we were blackout drunk. “It's real.”
Real enough, anyway.
Ricky had apparently decided Austin was acceptable and curled up on his foot. Austin looked down at him with a mixture of confusion and delight. “Can I pet him?”
“He'll probably allow it,” I said. “He's deemed you worthy.”
“Unlike you,” Cheyanne pointed out. “Your wife's dog hates you.”
“He doesn't hate me. He's just... adjusting.”
Karen meowed from her perch on the island, and I could have sworn it sounded sarcastic.
“Your whole life is adjusting,” Cheyanne said. “Are you happy?”
The question caught me off guard. Was I happy? I was stressed, confused, a little terrified, and covered in cat hair. My perfectly ordered life had been turned upside down in less than twenty-four hours.
But thinking about Davina coming home, to me, later, setting up her stuff in my space, probably arguing with me about where to put her coffee maker…
“Yeah,” I said, surprised to find it wasn't a lie. “I am.”
Cheyanne's expression softened. “Then I'm happy for you. Even if you did rob me of the chance to be a bridesmaid.”
“Elvis was the only witness.”
“I'm sorry, what?”
“Nothing.” I shook my head, trying to dislodge the mental image of Elvis's polyester jumpsuit. “Listen, give us a few days to get settled, figure things out, and then we'll have a party for both sides of the family.”
Austin was still petting Ricky, who'd now rolled over for belly rubs.
“Perfect.” She smiled. “Let's go, Austin. Leave the man to his... adjusting.”
They left, the door closing behind them. Karen resumed her position on the island, and Ricky sat by the door, presumably waiting for Davina.
My phone buzzed.
Davina: On my way home. YOUR home. Our home? Whatever. Bringing Thai food. Hope your kitchen survived Hurricane Karen.
I looked at Karen, who seemed to smirk.
Yeah, maybe I was happy. Terrified, but happy.