I melt. Or maybe it’s the icy droplets clinging to my clothes that are melting, but either way, there’s now a warm and fuzzy feeling in my chest.
“All right, come here, you stinker,” I mutter, kneeling down to pet the cat. He purrs louder, rubbing his head against my hand like I’m his favorite person in the world. I’m almost certain he’s manipulating me on purpose—the cat is scary smart—but I can’t help falling for it.
When it comes to my cats, I’m a total pushover.
The petting goes on until Mr. Puffs is certain I’m not going to yell at him. Then he strolls over to my bed and joins the other cats there, curling up on my pillow next to Cottonball.
I sigh and trudge to the bathroom to take a hot shower. As much as I hate to admit it, Kendall is right.
Somewhere along the way, I’ve turned into a bona fide cat lady.
* * *
As I shower, I try to convince myself that it’s not a big deal. Okay, so my clothes are old and a little ratty, and I don’t do anything with my hair except wash it and occasionally put a little gel in it. And yes, I have three cats. So what? Lots of people love animals. It’s a positive character trait. I’ve never trusted anyone who doesn’t like pets. It’s unnatural, like hating chocolate or ice cream. I can see how one might have preferences when it comes to animals—some sadly misguided individuals prefer dogs to cats, for instance—but not liking pets at all? One might as well be a serial killer.
Nonetheless, something about that label—cat lady—stings a bit. Maybe it’s because I’m only twenty-six. Like Kendall said, I’m supposed to be in my prime. If I come across as a hot mess now, what’s going to happen when I’m fifty or sixty? Maybe my dateless stretches will widen from a year-plus to a decade, and I’ll wander the streets cackling to myself while knitting hats out of cat hair.
No, that’s ridiculous. Besides, I don’t want a man. I really don’t. Okay, fine, maybe I want one for sex—I’m a normal, healthy woman—but I don’t need someone dictating my life and dominating my time. That’s what happened with Janie, my other best friend from college. She got a serious boyfriend, and now I never see her. And even Kendall, who prides herself on being independent, disappears for weeks at a time when she’s dating someone. My last serious boyfriend was my senior year of college, and I nearly flunked a class because he needed so much attention—and that was before I got the cats. Now that Queen Elizabeth, Mr. Puffs, and Cottonball are in my life, I can’t imagine squeezing in a man as well.
Still, when I come out of the shower and grab my phone, some devil on my shoulder—a tiny, stylish one who looks suspiciously like Kendall—makes me pull up a dating app that Janie had me join months ago. It’s the same one where she met her current boyfriend, the one who made her disappear from my life. Before said disappearance, she somehow strong-armed me into setting up a profile there. I played around with the app for a couple of days with some vague idea of finding a nice, laid-back guy who likes cats and long walks in the park, but after about a dozen dick pics, I gave up and stopped logging in.
“You didn’t really give it a shot,” Janie said in frustration when I informed her about the pics. “Yeah, there are some assholes on there, but there are also some good guys, like my Landon.”
“Right,” I said, nodding politely. Kendall and I are both of the opinion that Landon—he of the perpetual sneer and petty gossip—is an ass, but I didn’t want to say anything to Janie. In hindsight, though, maybe I should’ve spoken up, because shortly after Janie made me create that profile, she got sucked into the black hole of her relationship, and Kendall and I haven’t seen her since.
Placing the phone on the bed, I arrange my pillows to provide a backrest for me—a move that involves shooing Cottonball and Mr. Puffs off one pillow and moving Queen Elizabeth aside. Cottonball and Queen Elizabeth go amicably enough—Queen Elizabeth even jumps off the bed—but Mr. Puffs gives me an evil stare and swishes his tail threateningly from side to side before curling up next to my feet. I know he’s going to remember this offense and seek retaliation later, but for now, I have a comfy spot to look at all the dick pics that are undoubtedly waiting for me on the app.
Plopping down among the pillows, I log into my profile and check the inbox. Sure enough, there are about three hundred messages, with at least a hundred of them containing attachments of penile nature. Just for fun, I click through a few of them—some are actually of decent size and shape—but then I get bored and start systematically erasing them. I don’t know how men came up with the idea that dick pics are hot, because they’re honestly not. I have nothing against penises, but they don’t turn me on unless they’re attached to a guy I like. Bonus points if that guy happens to come with washboard abs and nice pecs, but personality is what matters to me most.