TEN LITTLE PIGGIES, CATNIP, AND THE SKID MARKS THAT RUINED IT ALL
The short walk to Maeve’s house was a welcome one. With each step, I felt the heaviness in my chest loosen just a little, and I focused on the present instead: the people who loved me, the warmth waiting inside Maeve’s home, and the meal that would fill more than just my stomach.
I didn’t bother with the iron wolf door knocker, its gleaming eyes always watching.
Instead, I turned the brass handle and stepped inside.
The entry hall was still, except for the faint voices drifting from above.
Candles danced in the sconces, casting soft shadows across the polished marble, and the scent of sandalwood layered with vetiver lingered in the air.
My heels touched the floor without a sound, each step steady and unhurried as I moved through the archway, the hem of my dress grazing the edge of the rug as I approached the staircase.
Upstairs, the ballroom overlooked the front patio.
Warm light spilled through the tall windows, skimming the polished floors like liquid gold. Violet spotted me first.
“Birdie!” She called out, beaming. Her hair was pulled into a long French braid, giving her an almost girlish glow.
All eyes turned toward me. A flutter of nerves sparked in my chest, but their warmth anchored me. Maeve, Elona, Violet, Emil, and Nell: My chosen family. The ones who pulled me back from the brink.
I moved to the grand oval table, hugging each of them in turn with a smile, a glance, and a silent thank you at every stop. I slid into the green velvet chair at the head of the table. Maeve had placed sunflowers in the center, my favorite flower.
Maeve broke the silence, eyes sparkling with amusement. “Well, Mass was a joyfully devious experience. I quite enjoyed the attention. Loads of familiar faces, male and female.” She wiggled her brows and winked.
Violet laughed. “I bet our presence will cause a busy week at The Oily Cat. Can’t say I’m complaining.”
“Oh, there’ll be a rush for sure,” Elona added. “I’m certain I saw some stiff pants on the way out.”
Everyone laughed, myself included, and the tightness in my chest from the day softened. This kind of easy teasing, this camaraderie, was balm for a soul too often left raw.
But then Emil’s voice broke through the chatter. “May I say grace?”
Normally, I would have given the blessing, but not tonight. Tonight, I needed to let someone else carry it. I nodded.
Silence fell and we joined hands, Violet to my right, Elona to my left. Their touch was grounding, a wordless assurance saying, We’ve got you.
Emil began. “Bless us, O Lord, and these, Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty. Bless The Oily Cat in the upcoming week so that we may prosper. Watch over Maeve, Elona, and Violet while they’re behind closed doors with the men and women of Your making.
Watch over my wife, Nell, who so dutifully follows in Your word. ”
I could tell my name was next—the slight pause in his prayer, the crack in his voice, the way both girls on either side of me were rubbing my hand with their thumbs like they already knew.
“And Lord, please hold Bernadette close to Your heart tonight. For as You know, she will need to feel Your love and comfort more now than ever.”
His words stung and I blinked hard. I couldn’t fall apart, not yet, and certainly not here. “Amen.” Emil whispered, barely louder than a breath.
“Amen.” we repeated in unison, the word rippling softly through the room like the closing of a prayer and the opening of a wound.
I drew in a breath, letting the stew’s aroma fill the space around us, rich and earthy, the unmistakable scent of Guinness beer and slow-roasted meat. My stomach gave a low growl in protest, but it was difficult not to focus on the deep emotion within my being that the day represented.
We ate in silence, the soft clink of silverware the only sound in the room.
I reached for my napkin, soft linen edged with delicate Celtic knots, Maeve’s embroidery.
Each thread precise and thoughtful. Eventually, I found my voice.
“Today . . . today marks two years since the worst day of my life,” I began, swallowing hard.
My throat closed up on the words, but I pushed through, one syllable at a time.
“And I just wanted to say thank you. If not for you, Emil, Nell . . .” I looked between them, searching for their eyes. “I wouldn’t be here.”
The room stilled in the wake of my words, as if the walls themselves had gone quiet to honor what had been spoken. Nothing moved and no one spoke. But the silence didn’t feel empty. It felt full and understood.
“There was a time,” I recalled, my voice barely rising above the gentle scrape of cutlery, “when I welcomed death. When I wanted it. Truly wanted it. And some days . . .” I paused, glancing down at my hands, clenched so tightly in my lap that my knuckles had gone pale. “Some days, I still think about it.”
The admission sat there, raw and unguarded. “But you saved me,” I continued, forcing the words past the ache in my throat. “All of you. You helped me stand again. You reminded me there was something worth staying for, and I love you for that. I hope you know that. I hope you feel it.”
My voice cracked on the last word. No one spoke right away. They didn’t need to. Their eyes, full of quiet knowing, said enough.
Nell’s smile came first, carrying a warmth that spoke volumes. Emil gave me a slow nod, his gaze warm, the gesture simple but grounding.
Eventually, the conversation shifted, and by the grace of God or sheer stubbornness, it found its way to safer ground. Talk turned to the week ahead, to work at The Oily Cat. Clients we loved, clients we merely tolerated, and the usual gossip threaded with stories so wild they bordered on folklore.
“Literal shit,” Elona blurted, finger pointed dramatically to the ceiling. “I pulled my finger out of his ass, and there was actual shit on it!”
“For fuck’s sake,” Emil muttered, the edge of his voice cutting as his expression curdled from stoic to disgusted.
We howled. Chairs creaked as bodies doubled over and glasses rattled on the table. I could barely breathe. “What did you expect?” I managed between gasps, my ribs aching. “The man had skid marks in his tighty-whities!”
“Honestly,” Violet added, swiping at her eyes with the corner of her sleeve, “that guy should come with a damn warning label. I knew something was off the second he asked for a wet towel and whiskey in the same breath.”
Maeve snorted into her wineglass, nearly spilling it. “Ah, sure, he’s a lad of refined taste,” she said, voice thick with sarcasm. “Clearly.”
Elona leaned back in her chair, swirling her wine with one hand, the other draped dramatically across her chest. “You think that’s bad?” She asked, eyes twinkling. “I had the Meow Man again last week.”
Violet gasped so loudly you’d think someone had slapped her. “He’s still around? I thought he moved to Billings!”
“Nope,” Elona said, dragging the word out with all the disdain it deserved. She rolled her eyes so hard I thought they might detach. “Apparently he’s back, and he’s upgraded his act. This time, he wore a tail. A tail. And insisted I call him Sir Whiskerbottom.”
Nell stared at me from across the table, eyes wide with horror, and I bit back a laugh. She looked genuinely appalled.
“Ah now, you poor thing,” Maeve said between giggles, the corners of her mouth twitching. “Did he at least tip you proper?”
Elona held up a finger, regal as ever. “Generously,” she said. “In cat treats.”
I choked. Wine nearly sprayed across the table. “You’re lying.”
“I wish I were. Left an entire bag on the nightstand like it was goddamn currency. Even wrote me a little note: For the best feline trainer in the Rocky Mountains.”
Violet was wheezing now, doubled over. “That man’s kink is a whole veterinary emergency.”
Elona raised her glass. “To fur, fantasy, and fucking delusion.”
“Speakin’ of emergencies,” Maeve chimed in, gazing dramatically at the deep red wine in her crystal glass, “I had Mrs. Thompson again last night.”
Violet straightened, blinking. “Wait, the Mrs. Thompson?”
“The very one,” Maeve confirmed, her voice dripping with amused contempt. Her lips curled into a sly, satisfied smile. “Old money. Smells like rosewater and powdered shame. You know the sort.”
“Oh, she’s a riot,” Elona said, raising an eyebrow. “Didn’t she once try to tip you with heirloom earrings?”
“Emeralds, love,” Maeve corrected with a wink. “But that’s not the point.” She dipped her head, voice dropping to a deliciously conspiratorial tone. “The woman enjoys . . . a bit of attention to her toes.”
“Elaborate.” I demanded.
“I wish you wouldn’t,” Emil said quickly, his voice tight. Nell scooted a little closer and gave his arm a playful rub, as if to say, Oh, come on. It’s all in good fun.
Maeve didn’t miss a beat. “She has me ride her face. And while I’m bent forward, folded like a paper crane, suck on her toes.
Slowly and with intention.” She held our gazes, letting the silence build around the image.
“After that, I rub a very particular lavender balm into them. Imported from France, mind you. Then, here’s the crucial part, she asks me to kiss ‘em. One by one. Softly. As though I’m sending each toe off to war. ”
Violet choked on her wine her face twisting. “I—why?!”
Maeve’s shrug was elegant, almost bored. “She says it helps her relax. Helps her open her spirit, whatever that means.” She took another sip of her wine, unbothered. “I say . . . it helps me afford cashmere. And I get my clit sucked in the process, so honestly, it’s a win-win, aye?”
Elona was practically sobbing with laughter, wiping under her eyes with both hands. “So let me get this straight,” she wheezed. “Mrs. Thompson gets her spiritual enlightenment from a face ride and a toe smooch?”
“Oh, aye, she claims it’s deeply therapeutic,” Maeve said, chin high. “And who am I to be questionin’ the self-care rituals of an aristocrat?”
“Self-care?” I cackled.
“You laugh, but she swears it cured her migraines. Every time she moans, ‘Maeve, you’ve got such gifted hands.' "I’m thinkin’, this is exactly how I die rich and slightly disgusted.”
Violet leaned back in her chair, the stem of her wineglass dangling between two fingers, her head shaking in disbelief. “I swear to God, Maeve. You’ve got the strangest regulars.”
“They’re not strange,” Maeve said with mock offense. “They’re just . . . uniquely liberated.”
“To uniquely liberated!” Elona toasted, holding her glass high.
“To toe-sucking therapy!” I added, laughing so hard I could feel the ache blooming in my sides.
“To emeralds, lotion, and spiritual enlightenment!” Maeve sang like a hymn, clinking her glass against mine with theatrical flourish.
The mood around the table was electric. Safe. Full of joy and memory and the strange intimacy that only shared absurdity can bring. In a place like The Oily Cat, laughter wasn’t just levity, it was a survival mechanism, as essential as breath.
I leaned back, the edges of my mouth still curved from laughter, and let the glow of the room sink into me.
The stew, the wine, the voices of the people who knew me better than I sometimes knew myself, it all stayed with me, clinging to my skin like warmth from a long bath.
The ache in my chest hadn’t left, but tonight, here, it didn’t define me.
Emil stood with a quiet stretch, his joints cracking in protest. “Always a pleasure, ladies.”
“Oh, come on,” I teased, smirking. “It’s just a bit of shop talk!”
Nell rose with him, slipping her arm through his. “I love these dinners,” she said, her voice soft, as if speaking any louder might shatter the moment.
Maeve waved her hand. “Leave the dishes. I’ll handle everything.”
I stood slowly, hugging each of them one by one. Giving long, tight embraces, like I could absorb a bit of their love into my bones if I just held on long enough.
“Well, my sweets,” I said at the door, reluctant to leave the light, “I better be off. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“You sure you don’t want us to walk you?” Emil asked. His voice carried more than concern—It held the quiet fear of someone who knew what I carried and how heavy it could get when the night got too still.
I touched his shoulder, grateful. “I’m okay tonight. But thank you.”
He hesitated, then nodded.
Outside, the night was calm and crisp. The stars were scattered like broken glass across the sky. The moon, thin and pale, hung low, a waning crescent with just enough light to softly kiss the night.
I filled my lungs with the cool night air, savored the stillness for a moment, and then slowly let it fade. The silence wasn’t what scared me, it was my thoughts. And by the time I reached my front door, they were screaming.
I wrenched the door open and rushed inside. The old wood groaned beneath my strain, protesting the intrusion. I slammed the door shut behind me, as if noise could seal the thoughts out of my mind. And then I dropped.
The floor beneath me was cold and unforgiving as I curled into myself, arms tight around my frame, rocking gently.
The tears didn’t fall all at once. They started slow, hesitant, and then, as though something deep inside me had cracked wide-open, they poured out fast and wild and hot and unstoppable.
My cries echoed in the emptiness, stretching out into the hollow corners of the house.
No one answered.