The Dating Proposal(49)

She whimpers. “You’re too perfect. This is too good to be true. I like you too much. I have to go.”

She hangs up.

I stare at the phone like it’s relaying radio signals in Martian.

Because that made zero sense.

I hit redial, but it goes straight to voicemail.

Now that? That makes sense. That translates to only one thing—she doesn’t want to hear from me.





31





McKenna





So this is what having a meltdown is like. It’s about blankets and dog cuddles and sad music blasting out all the noise in my head. It’s Elvis and Billie Holliday bathing my brain in sad songs, tunes of love that’ll never be. Love gone awry. Love that’s broken.

Because a little hurt is better than a big hurt.

And I’ve had the big hurt.

I simply can’t endure a bigger one, or even the risk of it. And with Chris, the hurt would be a doozy. It’s best to wrap myself in layers of Kevlar now by going through life alone. Solo is way safer.

After about three hours of burrowing under my covers and feeding the kernel of sadness inside me, I spring out of bed, lit up with an idea.

Meltdowns need fashion.

I forage through the new shipment of clothes sent by brands wanting features on my site. For my solo fashion show, I blast a new and old girl-power mélange of Cyndi Lauper and P!nk and Billie Holiday, singing along with the ladies as I try on jeans and skirts and sweaters. With just the right outfit, I am armor-clad. Fashion is a shield. Lift up your chin, hold your head high, and drape yourself in discount designer wear. That’s how you make it through your new life as a solo act. Or, really, my pre-Chris life. That’s what I’ll be—alone and fabulous, never hurt, always happy.

I toss a blue silk scarf around my neck and just as I spin around to ask Ms. Pac-Man’s opinion, she launches herself off the bed, skids across the hardwood floor, and fishtails like a bus into the living room. Curiosity gets the better of me, so I follow her. She’s scrabbling at the windowsill, barking her snout off.

“What is it, girl? A squirrel? Or is it the horny pug?” I make my way to her side, and my eyes pop when I see what’s causing the commotion.

A devil cat, perched on the railing.

But a devil cat who belongs to my friend.

I race to the front door, yank it open, and dart across the stoop. But Chaucer is wily for a reason. He’s possessed.

He swats a plant off Hayden’s front stoop, knocking the tiny terra-cotta fern to its death, then he leaps off the porch.

“Oh no, you don’t.”

I’m not fast. I’m not agile. But I’ve had enough of that cat’s troublemaking.

He scrambles under the stoop, and I cackle. There’s only one way out, and I’m blocking it. “Ha. You’re cornered, buddy.”

Crawling under the stoop in my new jeans and silky scarf, I lunge for him, thrusting out an arm and grabbing.

He slinks back, but he’s cornered. I grab his scruff, tug him out, and then cradle him.

“It’s okay. Let’s get you inside,” I tell him, switching gears immediately to a soft, cooing tone.

He remains stiff in my arms, but lets me carry him. I rap on Hayden’s door with my elbow, and seconds later, Lena yanks it open.

“Chaucer!” She holds out her arms and reaches for him. He slides into her grasp, kicking up the purr-o-meter and rubbing his face against her, as if he’s not the most dastardly animal of all time. I swear, this cat has nine lives and nine personalities.

“Thank you, McKenna.” Lena bats her eyes at me. “I was worried. I couldn’t find him when I got home from my Spanish lesson, but . . .” She glances around. “I think I might have accidentally let him out. I was just about to go looking for him.”

“Well, here he is,” I say, releasing a deep breath.

She kisses the top of his head. “Want to come in?”

I pretty much already am, so I close the door behind me. “Is your mom around?”

Lena shakes her head as she coddles the cat, petting his chin. “She’ll be home in a few minutes. Dad is working late. Do you want some rice and sautéed garbanzo beans? I was going to make some for a snack.”

“That’s what you eat for a snack?”

“It’s tasty.” She narrows her eyes. “What happened to you? You don’t look good.”

I sigh. “It’s a long story.”

“Does it involve the guy you really like?”

I blink. How is this child so observant? “Why do you say that?”

“The way you sigh and seem all out of sorts. It makes me wonder if it’s about a boy.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Hmm. I’m not sure I believe that.”

I shake my head, amused. “You’re your mother’s daughter, you know that, right?”

She smiles, heads to the couch, pats it, and tells me to sit. Chaucer curls up in her lap. “What’s the deal?”

“I really like him,” I blurt out, then I correct. “Wait, I think I love him.”

“That’s good, then.”

“Why is that good? Love is awful and terrible, and it eats you alive.”

“You’re just saying that because of your ex, who’s a big turd,” she says.