Chapter 29
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Cat
On Sunday morning, I wake up feeling like I spent all night playing (and losing) a bullet hell game. There’s a steel-wool scouring pad on the inside of my mouth, and I’m pretty sure the light lancing into my irises is determined to Phineas Gage me. The one percent of my prefrontal cortex that is functioning screams at me to roll over and drink some damn water, but I can barely piece together how I got home, or if I brushed my teeth, or why there’s a square of gauze taped to my hand.
Or why I can’t seem to breathe.
Reluctantly, I pull my chin down and sliver my eyelids open. A pair of judgy yellow eyes stares back at me. Meowing once, Stray flicks her tail and continues kneading her paws into my torso.
“Hello,” I wheeze. My breath must smell awful, since Stray yowls once and jumps down onto the carpet. Guess that answers the teeth-brushing question.
It takes all the muscle mass I own, but I leverage my body out of bed and stumble into the bathroom, where I plunge my head under the showerhead for an indeterminate number of minutes or hours. Two ibuprofen and sixteen ounces of water later, my memories float back to the surface.
Sally’s coworkers, who looked like they belonged at a country club, not B8. All the champagne I sucked down because I had no one to talk to. Glimpsing Val in the crowd, running her hands through someone’s hair.
Andi.
I groan so loud the bathroom echoes. Why couldn’t the associates at Cords & Beige have chosen a straight club to celebrate Sally at? Why couldn’t Andi have picked a different night to go out?
Why couldn’t I have stayed home with Stray instead of tagging along with my not-girlfriend to her work event?
In an attempt to hide from my own reflection, I pull yesterday night’s hoodie up to my nose. I inhale and smell wood smoke and oranges. All of a sudden, I’m back on Andi’s bike with my hands around her slim waist and a spike of electricity driving through me, lighting my insides on fire.
No. This is my boss I’m thinking about. My boss who very much still hates me.
Propelling my limbs into action, I toss the hoodie into the hamper, then ransack my room until I locate my phone in the last place I thought I’d find it: plugged in on my nightstand. First things first. I have to tell Andi’s assistant I quit. Then I have to move out of the state—no, the country—and change my name, appearance, and mother’s maiden name. I’m about to put [email protected] in the “To” line when my unread notifications waylay me. I have three missed calls—one from Rosalie and two from my parents—and a text from Andi. She can’t be firing me, can she? Without Philo’s buy-in, she doesn’t have that power … right? I’ll quit before I let her fire me.
With shaking fingers, I tap on the text. Left your keys on the kitchen counter. And fyi, your cat literally wouldn’t let me leave ’til I fed her a Fancy Feast.
So I’m not getting fired. Not right away, anyway. There’s still time, I suppose.
I hit the microphone to voice dictate my reply, then pause. What should I say? “Thanks” by itself feels too brusque, but I hardly want to reference everything that happened at B8 and afterward. Maybe I can play the entire episode off as a joke. And should I acknowledge the fact that Andi fed my cat? But that feels like a lot to cover in a single text, and I don’t want to send two.
I glare at Stray, who’s washing herself innocently in the corner by the hamper. I tried to feed her yesterday as soon as I got back from Revivify, but she turned her dainty pink nose up at her dish. “Okay, princess,” I threaten. “Tonight you eat what I put out.”
In response, Stray arches her back and—oh no, oh no no no —throws up a massive hairball.
The combination of stomach acid, half-digested Fancy Feast, and cat breath clouds up my bedroom immediately, and I toss my phone onto my bed, close to throwing up myself. Stray, the little shit, runs off with her tail held high.
“For fuck’s sake,” I shout after her vanishing asshole. “Get back here, you fucker!”
I dry heave over my trash can a few times, but thankfully, nothing comes up, and I manage to clean up the cat’s mess without emptying my own innards on top of it. With my room’s floor newly sanitized and Febreze’d, I shut the door behind me and head toward the kitchen to FaceTime my parents back. They pick up on the first ring.
“How are you, honey?” my mom asks gently.
“Fine,” I answer, peeling my eyelids up as high as they’ll go. My mom has this uncanny ability to detect when I’ve had a rough night. “What’s up? Sorry for missing your calls.”
“No worries,” my dad says at the same time my mom coos, “Honey, what’s wrong with your face? Such big bags under your eyes.”
Why do I even try?
“I was up late working,” I lie. No point in telling them about my actual night.
“Aiya,” my mom tsks. “Why work so hard when you’re only a temp, eh? No benefits, no need, right?” Beside her, my dad nods as if sager advice has never been dispensed. My shortcomings and GSL’s relative perfection are some of the few things my parents agree on.
“It’s important to me, Mom,” I say, spotting my ring of keys. They’re on the counter, right where Andi said she left them—my apartment fob, my boba loyalty card, and the keys to my Bug.
My mom shakes her head. “Remember, Sulin, health is number one. After health comes work, then hobbies.”
“Yes, hobbies,” my dad hums.
I manage not to roll my eyes. I gave up a long time ago on making them understand that my hobby is my work. If I can make it through a conversation with my parents without suffering a lecture or hearing about GSL’s latest accomplishments, I consider it a win. “What’s up with you guys? Dad, how’s the garden?”
“Fine,” my dad muses. “The autumn crocuses—”
My mom bulldozes over him. “We have questions for you, Sulin. About Sally!”
My neck warms at the reminder that my fake girlfriend may very well want to renege on our deal after the mess I made of her work event. “What about Sally?” I ask.
“Daddy and I were thinking, instead of going out to eat on Thanksgiving, we’ll cook a big meal at your and Sally’s place!”
“We don’t live together—” I start.
“Does she eat seitan? Seaweed knots? What about spicy foods, like Sichuan dry-fried green beans? Of course we’ll have turkey and mashed potatoes and all the other traditional white-people foods too.”
“I don’t know,” I stammer.
“How can you not know, Sulin?” my mom demands. “You’ve been dating for six weeks!”
I wince. Ever since our relationship went from real to just-for-show, we’ve stopped hanging out outside of Friday nights. Yesterday was the first exception in a long while. “I just … don’t.”
“Well, find out!” my mom snaps.
“Google Maps says there’s a Costco on”—my dad squints—“Marshall Road, where we can buy most of the ingredients we’ll need.”
My brows draw together. “They sell seaweed at Costco?”
“They sell everything at Costco!” my dad says happily.
My mom hits my dad on the arm. “We can’t make a shopping list until Sulin lets us know of Sally’s dietary restrictions. You go and ask her now, Sulin! Call us back anytime.”
They hang up, leaving me to stare at myself.
Great. Fan-fucking-tastic. Now, on top of the two people I have yet to respond to, I have a hangover, a raging stress headache, and a billion questions to ask Sally. Thanksgiving can’t come soon enough. At least after November, I’ll have proven to my family I can be in a multi-month-long relationship and Sally and I can finally “break up.”
Although I have to confirm we’re still on. After last night, I can’t be sure Sally still wants to be paraded around as my girlfriend. I can’t believe I rammed my head into Andi’s jaw (her stupidly strong jaw) and broke all those glasses.
At least my day can’t get any worse.
I call Rosalie back. She wants to check out a doughnut pop-up in LoDo, which I agree to without hesitation. My brain practically shuts down at the thought of deep-fried carbs dipped in frosting and sprinkles. We decide to meet up at noon, which gives me thirty minutes to craft the perfect I’m sorry, please forgive me, and definitely don’t change your mind about the fake dating plea to Sally. She hasn’t checked in with me, which means she must be mad, maybe even furious. I don’t blame her. I was a clown.
How does a clown apologize? The words refuse to come. Desperate, I tack and pull up Andi’s message again. There’s no writer’s block that can’t be fixed with a little procrastination.
That’s when I see it. What I accidentally dictated and sent while I was chasing after Stray, screaming bloody murder.
Okay, princess. Tonight you eat what I put out.
I was wrong. This day has gotten way, way worse.