Page 70 of Something Reckless

Feeling a genuine flutter of happiness in my heart, I pause to tickle behind the ear of the five-pound ball of fur and bones curled up atop the dryer. Captain Ginger lazily opens one amber eye to squint vacantly at me.

“As far as birthdays go, this one isn’t a total dud…right?”

The grumpy bastard lifts his little orange paw and smacks my hand away from his ear.

“Hey!” I chide softly. “Don’t be mean to me. I’m going through a ‘thing’ right now. I could use some emotional support.”

I pour in a bit of detergent and restart the washing machine, hoping to rinse the red dye out of my blouses.

While the barrel fills with water, I turn around to scoop up the basket of tank tops, gym bras and yoga pants I just pulled out of the dryer.

I find the haughty white Persian cat stretched out across the top of my clean clothes.

Well, no wonder I’m always covered in cat hair.

“Cotton Ball! You’re not supposed to be there and you know it.” I gently shoo her off and she hops down to her feet in that regal way of hers, cursing at me the whole time.

These two are a pair of entitled, little brats. Too bad they’re so damn adorable. And I’m getting way more attached to them than I should.

With my phone clutched securely in my palm, I pad up the stairs, laundry basket tucked under my arm.

“As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, today hasn’t been entirely lame.

Alana took me out for lunch earlier, and she splurged on a huge piece of double chocolate cake.

Isn’t she sweet?” I grin at the thought of my lifelong bestie.

“Anyway, we didn’t come close to finishing the cake, so I’ve got at least one thing sitting in the fridge to look forward to later.

Then, Emma and Ziggy promised to take me out this weekend, so I’ll count that as another ‘something’ to look forward to. ”

I enter my bedroom, Captain Ginger and Cotton Ball tangling around my ankles.

These cats have been extra, extra clingy tonight. Which is a tad creepy, because the orange one usually stays hidden all day, only coming out to attack my socked feet while I get ready for bed.

But tonight, it’s like they're rubbing up against my legs, mewling at me, and saying, “We understand you’re thirty now and still all alone. Adopt us and we’ll upgrade you from lonely bachelorette to crazy cat lady.”

“I’m onto you,” I murmur to them as I lower to the edge of my bed with a bottle of moisturizer in hand.

Most of my recent birthdays have been spent with my girlfriends, but this year, it seems that everyone has something more important to do. Alana, Ziggy, Emma—hell even the woman who birthed me—all had excuses for why they couldn’t celebrate with me tonight.

I’ve been trying to brush it off, to not be offended, reminding myself that the girls all have their own lives to live with their own things happening. Especially on a week night.

But it sure doesn’t help that what was promising to be a sunny spring day somehow rolled into a rainy and miserable night. I thought I could at least treat myself to a solo picnic on my back patio, but apparently the weather gods were like “Nope, we’ve got other plans, too.”

I’ve been anticipating this day with mild to moderate levels of dread for pretty much the last three years. But now that it’s here and has proven more uneventful than a trip to the eye doctor, I’m starting to wonder why I’ve been psyching myself out all this time .

My phone dings on the mattress next to me and I pounce on it. But disappointment sweeps over my body like a wave when I see it’s just a few of the girls from Corri’s hair salon, sending me a string of silly celebratory gifs.

Earlier, my friend Minka from Sin Valley sent me the most perfect birthday serenade featuring her rockstar husband, Declan, and their adorable babbling toddler, Melody. I smile to myself as I watch the video again.

Throughout the day, my phone’s been buzzing with texts and calls from all my close friends and relatives, wishing me a happy day.

…Except for one person. Cash.

Which, for the life of me, doesn’t make any sense.

Cash has never, ever missed a single birthday.

If we couldn’t see each other in person, he’s always called.

The birthday calls have been the more frequent mode of celebration in recent years since he lives so far away. But this year? Nothing. Dead silence.

I’m surprised by how much that stings.

Yeah, I can gloss over all my other disappointments and make excuses for everyone else who has let me down today. But knowing that one of my closest friends completely forgot about me this year—on such a special birthday, too—that stings.

Right now, I feel anything but special.

After slathering my skin with lotion, I rise from the edge of my bed and drop the towel. I take in my reflection, examining what I’m workin’ with.

“I’m kind of cute…right?” I mumble to my furry companions. “Totally. Yeah, definitely…Um, I think.”

My hips are rounder than they were this time last year. I’ve gained a few pounds, for sure. But whatever. I have curves for days. And all the important stuff is still relatively tight and perky—for the most part—so I’m taking that as a good sign.

My blonde curls are a frizzy mess after my shower and without makeup on, I’d probably get carded at the liquor store. But what bothers me most is the flatness in my blue eyes tonight.

As much as it goes against my usual happy-go-lucky philosophy, the truth is, tonight, I’m sad. And I don’t like it.

“It could be worse,” I tell the cats who are now sprawled on my comforter.

“I mean—I once heard this story about some poor woman who discovered a gray hair in her pubes right before she turned the big three-oh.” I whisper, feeling a shudder of sympathy move through me.

“Can you even imagine that?! At least I didn’t find a grey hair in my bush today.

There. Something else to be grateful for. ”

I’m searching for the silver lining. It’s a full-blown search party over here.

I’m not entirely averse to aging or anything. I guess a part of me just hoped to have accomplished more by the time I hit this big milestone.

I would have loved to be married by now.

And to have a bunch of kids running around the house, driving me crazy.

Or at least to have a steady boyfriend to pop a bottle of cheap champagne with.

With each passing birthday, it seems like Mom was right after all—the women in our family are cursed. We don’t get happy endings.

Deciding not to feel sorry for myself, I dig through the basket of clean clothes and pull on some underwear along with my favorite yoga pants and a fresh tank top. I go down to the kitchen, rummage around in the fridge and put together a small dinner for me and my two foster cats.

I slap together a toasted sandwich for myself out of yesterday’s grilled chicken and plop a couple cans of smoked salmon into the cats’ dishes. My sandwich doesn’t look too great, and I’m completely aware that the cats are feasting like royalty while I’m scraping together scraps from my fridge.

Getting out my leftover lunch cake, I flip it open and stab my fork through the frosting, deciding that it’s my day. If I wanna eat my dessert before dinner, then to hell with societal rules.

I pour myself a glass of wine, not even bothering to open up the nice bottle. I just keep working on the bottle I opened last weekend. Seems like a waste to have two half empty bottles open at the same time on what’s turning out to be a regular ol’ Wednesday evening.

As I crunch into the mini chocolate chips hiding in the cake, my mind drifts back to one evening in particular.

“Wanna hear something funny?” I ask Cotton Ball and Captain Ginger as I lean a hip against the kitchen counter.

“Me and Cash made a marriage pact once. It was the night of his brother Davis’s wedding to your aunt Alana.

At the wedding reception, the guy I was dating started making out with some random stranger and left me standing there like a total fool.

Cash, in an attempt to make me feel better about myself, swooped in to the rescue and promised that if I was still single on this very day—my thirtieth birthday— he would marry me.

” I chuckle wryly to myself. “It was all just a joke, though. I never actually expected him to just show up here and whisk me off to the altar.”

Of course not.

Cash Westbrook is now the filthy rich CFO of one of the biggest financial firms in Chicago. He’s gorgeous. He’s brilliant. He has multiple degrees in business and finance from an ivy league institution and a list of accomplishments a mile long.

He’s the perfect man, who has an unlimited pick from the most beautiful women in the country.

Of course he’s forgotten all about a silly promise he made to me nine and a half years ago.

And on the off chance he didn’t forget, it’d only be something he’d laugh about now.

A funny story to tell his picture-perfect future wife someday.

I’d like to say I’ve completely forgotten about that marriage pact, too, but since that day, the contract scribbled onto the back of that gas station receipt has been there, dangling in the back of my mind like the lyrics to my favorite childhood song.

I take a small sip of my wine. “Cash is an incredible person. A bit of a grumpy jerk sometimes, but still an incredible person. And I’m so proud to call him my best friend. But that’s all he’ll ever be in my life.”

A dark laugh escapes when I realize I’m having a full-blown conversation with my foster cats, only cementing my own looney future.

God, it’s true. I’m officially the cat lady.

Okay, get yourself together, Megs. The world doesn’t owe you anything. You’ve gotta just be grateful for what you have, right?