Oh, no.
It’s happening again.
He turns his head to the side, giving me a suspicious look. “Megan, what did you say your nickname was?”
Wishing I hadn’t mentioned it back at the antiques store, I swallow and say softly, “Meenie. My sister’s name is Tina, so we’re Teenie and Meenie. It’s a rhyming thing, not because I’m not mean.”
He blinks. “I didn’t say you were mean.”
No, he didn’t say it, but now he’s thinking it. I can see it all over his face.
I look down at the table, avoiding his scrutiny. “People like to say I’m mean. But that’s just because they’re insecure and can’t take a joke.”
“Is that so?” he says calmly.
I can feel the attitude running through my body, making my head twitch to the side. “Most people can’t take a joke, or the truth, for that matter. But I can take it. I wish more people were honest, and got to the point. Small talk is the worst.”
He’s quiet, so I glance up to see his reaction. I’m hoping he’ll laugh and agree with me, but he doesn’t. He’s not a cool dude like Luca. Not many guys are.
Duncan picks up his import beer and takes a long swallow straight from the bottle. It’s a light beer. Shit. That should have been my first clue he was the sensitive type. Or vain. Or both.
He keeps his green eyes open and on me the whole time he drinks.
I look around for the waitress. “Wow, I am so hungry. We should order some nachos.”
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and sets the bottle down carefully.
“You must do some really nice flower arrangements at the shop,” he says.
“We do. Why?”
“Because that attitude of yours would drive you out of business if you didn’t. I wouldn’t hire you to sweep my floors, much less talk to customers.” He pauses to let the words sink in, then says, “How’s that for some truth, Meenie?”
This date is over. I push my chair back and dig through my purse for some money. I toss some bills on the table and get to my feet.
I open my mouth to tell him I just remembered that I have a group therapy meeting tonight, and I can’t stay for dinner after all.
But all that comes out is, “You’re short, and your goatee makes your mouth look like a lady’s privates.”
I turn and walk out of Delilah’s as fast as I can without running.
Outside, I turn down the side street and pick up the pace.
I mutter under my breath, “What the hell, Meenie? Why do you have to be so aggressive? No wonder you don’t have any friends or a boyfriend. You’re hopeless. You thought you were making progress with your stupid self-help group, but you’re getting worse and worse every day. You should just give up and stop trying. Go to a shelter and get a dozen rescue cats and be done with it.”
I keep walking and muttering to myself like the unhinged and unlovable person that I am.
Chapter 2
I get home, walk in the door, and toss myself face down on the sofa. The pillows smell like my mother’s perfume.
Sadness burns in my lungs. I miss my mother, who’s traipsing around Europe like she’s Julia Roberts on a magical zero-calorie pasta binge.
I’m about to start a massively self-indulgent sob session when I feel cat feet on the backs of my legs and then my back.
Muffin has sensed that I need his furry comfort, and begins kneading my back, between my shoulder blades. Of course I am still in deep despair over the disaster that was my almost-date, but one cannot wallow in despair when a loving ginger cat is giving you a compassionate back massage.
He leans forward and gives my earlobe a nip.
“Muffin, I thought you loved me, but you just want tuna, don’t you?”
He purrs louder, and nips my ear again, harder this time.
Cursing him, I get up and walk to the kitchen. The orange cat follows along, trotting on his white-socked feet, a look of pretend surprise on his face. Oh, you’re going to the kitchen? Oh, you’re opening the fridge? What? There’s tuna in there? In that can? For meeeeee? Well, I suppose if you insist!
I sprinkle his blood pressure medication onto a tablespoon full of low sodium tuna. He’d love the whole can, but it would give him painful gas and irritate his pancreas. Then I’d have to google feline forums and get the cold sweats over cat care disasters.
The powder turns bright green. Opening the capsules with my thumbnail and doing this always reminds me of a Disney witch, happily poisoning children. Sometimes I cackle.
Muffin doesn’t care what I say or how I laugh, as long as I deliver the goods.
Once he’s been taken care of, I give the countertops a wipe down and pull out the canisters to do some baking. I tap the radio on with flour-dusted fingers, and then lose myself in classical music and a divine batch of cinnamon buns.
My unhappiness over what happened with Duncan is still present, but it’s more of a dull ache than a raw hurt. I’m practicing one of the things I learned at group—procrastination. When I think about bad thoughts, I tell myself I’ll just worry about it later.
Meenie, you told Duncan his goatee makes his mouth look like a lady’s privates.
Did I? Oh, well. I’ll worry about that later. I’ve got to put on a fresh shirt for group, because this one’s covered in flour.
Meenie, no man can ever love you.
Really? Is this because—oh, wait. I’d better think about this some other time, when I can truly focus on the issue. I’ll worry about this later. Not now.
I pull into the parking lot for the community center and park my mother’s big Cadillac at the far end, where it won’t get dinged. I like this big car. It makes me look skinny.
I’m already late for the group session, but I have a pan of cinnamon buns, so I’m okay. This group loves my baking. I could probably murder one of them at random, and the others would help me bury the body, if I had cinnamon buns.
I walk down the hallway, past the community bulletin board, and arrive at the door to Room 3C.
Most groups will put a sign on the door saying what the meeting is for. Our coach just tapes a small business card on the door—a business card that is really not that descriptive.
The door to Room 3C opens with a squeak.
Our coach, a pretty blonde named Feather, waves for me to come in. I put the cinnamon buns on the back table, careful to keep the plastic wrap on so the smell isn’t distracting, and I take an empty chair in the circle.
One of the older ladies, the librarian, is sharing the news that things are going well with the widower she’s dating. When she talks, my eyes get leaky. I’m happy for her, finding not one, but two great loves in a lifetime. It gives me hope that maybe if I’m half as decent a person as her, I might get half as lucky. That would be enough.