3. Rose
rose
“Reed?” I call as if I don’t know where he is. This guy is so predictable. Of course he’s in my bedroom.
“Come on out, honey,” I croon as I climb the stairs. “I’ve got your dinner ready for you.”
Not that he cares. I’d hoped a tasty meal would lure him down, but he’s got a one-track mind. I call his name again as I walk into my bedroom. Dropping onto my knees, I offer him the only thing that gets his attention.
I poke my head under the bed, holding out a slim packet of goopy cat treats. Four feet away, crammed between the fluffy area rug and the bed frame, blue eyes shine at me.
He doesn’t even have the decency to give me a “meow.” He’s that spiteful.
“Are you going to come out, Grumpy Pants?” I pspsps at him, shaking the fishy smelling goo packet. “Come here, honey.”
In the low light, his tail flicks, and he gives me a slow blink. Rejected. Ugh. This cat.
I adopted him three weeks ago, full of dreams of soft, warm kitty cuddles.
In my fantasies, he would jump and dance while I dangled cat toys for him, and we would have conversations back and forth in adorable meows.
He’d come running when I walked in the door after work and sleep curled up next to me every night.
His purr would become the happy soundtrack to my life.
Instead, he’s spent most of his time hissing at me from underneath various pieces of furniture. He only comes out to eat when I’m at work. Once in a while, he leaves his safe space to vomit on the rug in the hallway in the middle of the night.
So yeah. Cat parenthood is going great.
“Reed,” I sing again, drawing it into two long syllables.
I didn’t set out to name my pet after my boss. I fully intended on calling him something cute, but his personality hasn’t vibed with any of my attempts. Sir Fluffypants the Third. Mr. Wiggles. Anchovy. Butterball.
One day, it just clicked. His sour little face. The gray patches on his forehead that look like grumpy eyebrows. His general surliness.
To be fair, the real Reed is a lot nicer to me than this cat is.
I waggle the treat packet again, making kissy noises with zero dignity. I need this cat to love me, dang it. “Come on, Grumpus. It’s delicious. Yum yum.”
I mime eating the goop and catch a big whiff of salmon. Gross.
The cat remains unmoved.
My phone’s digital ringtone drifts up to me from downstairs. I groan, worming out from under the bed. “I’ll be back, Reed. Grumpy Gus. Whoever you are.”
I rush down the stairs and sprint the rest of the way to my phone. Once I see the screen, my excitement dies out. I’m not sure who else I expected it to be. Maybe a friend asking to get together for lunch and an afternoon wandering thrift stores to gather more trinkets for my collection.
Ha. I wish.
“Hi, Mom.” I brace myself, ready to reassure my parents that everything in my life is fantastic. Again.
“My darling Rosie! How are you?”
I drop onto the couch, setting the cat treat packet on the end table. “I’m good. Did you make it to Sydney?”
“G’day, mate!” Dad’s so close to the phone, my ears ring. “Top o’the morning to ya.”
I laugh at his silliness. “I think you’ve got your stereotypical ethnic phrases confused.”
“Crikey, you might be right!”
“Dad. Please don’t try your accents out on the locals.” They’d be packed up and shipped back to the States before he could finish his Hugh Jackman impression. He never talked like this when they were in Thailand or Costa Rica, thank goodness, but it’s still wildly inappropriate.
“Don’t worry. I’m keeping an eye on him,” Mom says.
“That’s not a knife,” Dad says in a terrible Australian accent. “This is a knife.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“Really?” he says in his normal voice. “Crocodile Dundee?”
“I don’t think anybody watches that anymore.”
“Oh. Maybe I should try something with what’s-his-name…Chris Hemsworth?”
I can just imagine my dad mimicking happy-go-lucky Thor.
“Don’t pretend to be anybody. Just be Gary Rainey, a tourist who’s very respectful of other cultures and doesn’t do accent impressions.”
“Rosie,” he scolds. “Where’s the fun in that?”
“We’re just checking in on you,” Mom says. “Is everything going okay?”
“Everything’s great.” Just like it was when they called to check in three days ago. And two days before that. No changes here.
My parents have been on permanent vacation since they retired two years ago.
Cruises to tropical islands, rented beach bungalows, walking tours across Europe, they’re doing it all.
They want to experience as much of the world as possible, and they’re filling their Google drive with pictures to prove it.
They come back to Sunshine for a few weeks every six months or so, but they’re in touch all the time.
And I mean all the time. Daily texts, twice-weekly phone calls, and video chats before I’m even out of bed.
I feel like a sixteen-year-old left home alone for the first time and her parents can’t enjoy themselves because they’re too afraid she’ll burn the house down while they’re gone.
“Is the A/C giving you any trouble?” Mom asks.
“Working perfectly.”
“If you see wasps along the back support wall in the garden, they probably have a nest in the bricks,” Dad says. “Call an exterminator. Don’t try to fix it yourself. You’ll get stung.”
“I haven’t seen any wasps yet this summer.”
“And don’t put your hand in the air conditioner fan.”
“Why would I ever—?”
“Just don’t do it. I had a dream you were four again and playing in the air conditioner wires.”
Of course he did. They’re excited to explore the world, but they still feel guilty about leaving me here all alone. I wish they wouldn’t. Their guilt just brings out mine. Like they could be happier if only I had myself more together.
“How are things at work?” Mom asks. “No rude customers today, I hope.”
“Everybody was on their best behavior.” I usually don’t tell them about the one-off rude interactions anyway.
That just makes them fret more. They liked it better when I had an office job in a nice, safe cubicle where nobody ever got fussy with me about the difference between oat and soy milks.
Unfortunately for them, I quit that soul-sucking job and never looked back.
“We decided to do a coffee cart at the new summer concert series every week, though.”
Score another one for Rose. Not that I’m in competition with Reed, but it definitely counts as a win.
“And?” she prompts. “Any other news?”
I scoot lower on the couch until I rest my head on the back cushion. Twice-weekly calls, and she acts like it’s a brand-new question every time.
“No other news to report.”
“Nothing of a more personal nature going on?” she presses.
“She means boys,” Dad says.
“I got that.” Astronauts on the space station got it.
I’ve been dumped six times by short-term boyfriends in the last several years.
Six. Times. As much as guys seem to like me at first, that rush of affection never lasts.
Something shifts, and their interest fizzles out like a time-lapse video of cheese going moldy.
I can’t figure out what I’m doing wrong, and the harder I try, the quicker the break-up comes.
Last year, I promised myself I wouldn’t add to that number. I’m not officially off dating or on a self-imposed man ban. I could go out if I wanted to. I’m just over getting my hopes up only to have them crushed again. If I want heartache, I’ll watch a coming-of-age movie where somebody’s pet dies.
And you know what? I’m doing just fine without a man. I’ve got my romcom books. An assortment of YouTube grannies teaching me how to knit. I’ve got my cat, who will start loving me any day now. Everything’s great.
“Do you ever see Shepherd around town?” Mom asks. She’s so hopeful that maybe this time I’ll have good news to share.
Her favorite of my exes, Shepherd Callahan was my last semi-serious boyfriend who also happened to be a genuinely good guy.
Of course Mom can’t let him go. She casually asks about him every other month, her fingers perpetually crossed for a second chance romance story.
Incidentally, we stopped seeing each other three years ago, not that a little thing like that matters to her.
To be honest, I see him around town all the time.
He owns the bike shop down the street from Perk Me Up and is impossible to miss.
He looks over-the-moon happy with his fiancée, a fact I cannot reveal to my mother.
If she finds out that another single man in Sunshine is off the market, she might abandon her plans to see the world in favor of coming home to be my full-time matchmaker.
My parents met and married at twenty-three. To them, being single at thirty-one is like being an accessory to a crime, man or woman. But it’s especially bad for me.
“I don’t see him much, Mom.”
“I don’t want to pry,” she lies through her teeth, “but we ask because we care. All we want is for you to be as happy as possible.”
Just now, I have a lot more sympathy for Reed’s extra-heavy scowl when his sister was trying to set him up the other day. He doesn’t want to be pushed into love any more than I do. He wants to make his own choices.
And he chooses blondes, apparently. I’ll file that away under Info I Hope I Never Need to Know.
Mom goes on talking about the importance of being as pleasing as possible to attract men. Reminding me I can always tell my parents anything, no matter how personal. Wondering if I would even confide in them if I was seeing someone new? Don’t I trust them anymore?
It’s her usual relationship speech. Be sweet and unassuming. It’s unattractive to argue. Don’t disagree or he’ll think I’m a Negative Nelly. Funny how being a Positive Polly hasn’t helped me out the last six times, either.
Suddenly, a ball of white-and-gray fur lands on the arm of the couch. My heart leaps into my throat, surprise and joy singing through my veins. He’s still three feet away, but this is the best progress we’ve made so far. He’s practically in my lap.
Cuddles are back in my sights.
“Reed!”
I wasn’t even that loud, but my outburst sends him two feet in the air before he careens straight back up the stairs in a blur. Shoot. He’s probably under my bed again already. I bet I won’t see him for a week now.
“Reed?” Mom repeats. “You’re dating Reed?”
Double shoot. I don’t even know what she said last. “Oh, I didn’t mean—”
“That’s wonderful news, darling! He’s a good man, even if he can be a little…”
“Crotchety,” my dad chimes in.
“No, that’s not it,“ I tell them.
Dad chuckles. “If you don’t think he’s crotchety, you must be perfect for him.”
“I mean, yes, he can be grumpy, but—”
“We always liked him for you,” Mom says. “Didn’t we say that the last time we stopped in, Gary? Reed looked like he had a twinkle in his eye for you, Rosie.”
Somehow, I doubt Reed’s eyes have ever twinkled. Menaced, maybe. Definitely not twinkled, and definitely not for me.
“Mom, we’re not—”
“I know, I know,” she barges on. “I won’t get ahead of myself. No browsing Mimi’s Bridal just for fun.”
“Wink wink,” Dad says.
My stomach curdles as I imagine my mother looking at wedding dresses the instant she thinks I’m dating someone. No pressure.
“But we’re so thrilled for you,” she continues. “This is just what we were hoping would happen. It will be easier for us to enjoy ourselves out here, knowing you’re not alone. That’s so much house for you to handle on your own.”
“I haven’t had any problems with the house I can’t handle.” Not really the point right now, but I am fully capable of being a homeowner.
“Now you’ve got Reed to help you.” She sighs as if she’s looking at a poster of him on her wall. “You’ll find a way to be perfect for him, I know it. As long as he treats you right and makes you happy, that’s all that matters to us.”
Her voice breaks on the last sentence. Is she crying?
My will to clear up this stupid misunderstanding abandons me alongside the air exhaling out of my lungs.
I hate that they’re so worried about me they can’t seize every day of their retirement without offering me advice.
If they thought I wasn’t wandering through this big old house by myself like a lonely ghost, maybe they wouldn’t feel they have to check in on me so often.
And maybe I wouldn’t feel quite so pitiful when they do call.
“Reed makes me super happy,” I blurt out.
I’m pretty sure, somewhere in the woods, Reed just shivered.
Too late, my parents’ whoops and hollers make me rethink this foolish lie.
I can’t very well add, “As my boss” now and pretend that’s what I meant all along.
But at least this dumb situation is contained to the three of us.
Best of all, two of us are currently on the other side of the Pacific Ocean.
When we finally hang up on choruses of “Tell Reed hi,” I collapse sideways onto the extra-firm couch. This is fine. Making up a boyfriend for her parents’ sake is a totally normal thing for an adult woman to do. That’s how you know you’re killing it at life.
I press my face into a throw pillow to muffle my scream. Just a little one. Because everything’s going to be fine. Yes. It’s all going to be A-OK.
Tilting my head so my mouth is free, I shout at the ceiling. “This is all your fault, Cat-Reed!”
He doesn’t respond. He’s probably thrilled my stomach’s all twisted up in knots. Because he hates me.
Just like Man-Reed will if he ever finds out about this.