Page 45 of In a Word, Yes

“I’m sorry, I just assumed ... we’re offering a special on this treatment.” Kendra (her name tag reveals) gestures to a gold-framed poster. “It’s our most popular serum.”

Do I look like I need more glow? For a sliver of a moment I very much want what this woman possesses. Preferably before I fly out for the conference in Baltimore. I’ve never had a beauty treatment in my life. And yet...

Lucy’s making progress learning to say yes.

It’s time I practice saying no.

“Oh, bless you, Kendra. Another time, perhaps.”

The kind of glow-up I’m in need of will have to begin on the inside.

Fifteen

pixilated(adj.): somewhat mentally unsound

Lucy

I arrive early the following Thursday night, hoping to check in with Savannah before the second official gathering of the Sweet Reads Writing Society commences. But tonight she is neither making tea nor shelving books. She left hours ago, Ian tells me, due to morning sickness that refuses to be limited to mornings. At least now her pregnancy is one less secret I carry.

My favorite tabby slinks around my ankles, meowing pathetically. “Aww, Louie,” I say, stooping to stroke his thick orange fur. “You sure are a chatty catty tonight—”

“Lucy, no!” Ian shouts. “I wouldn’t—”

White fangs flash. I jerk away, but already pain spears my hand. “Ow!” I try shaking the pain away. On inspection, the space between my thumb and pointer finger bears an angry red bite mark.

“Oh no,” Ian says, “I’m so sorry! It’s me he’s not happy with. I’m out of food.”

“No biggie,” I say through gritted teeth. “No blood.” At least not yet. “All good. But poor Louie.” I’ve never known him to bite.

“Don’t let him convince you he’s starving. He’s always got kibble. But you know Louie. Total prima donna. He usually gets a scoop of wet food at closing time. So yes, my cat, who holds no job, pays no rent, and poops in a box, is unhappy about his menu choices.”

Louie directs an unending series of fierce meows at Ian. “And he’s never going to let me hear the end of it until he gets his Fancy Feast Seafood Pâté. He’s very particular.”

Welcome to my world, I nearly say, thinking of Chase.

“I guess every unhappy kitty is unhappy in its own way,” I quip in an attempt to pose as someone who, for the sake of Ian’s feelings, is no longer suffering twinges of pain.

“Ahh! Riffing on Tolstoy. You’re so clever, Lucy.”

“Need me to run and get a can of food? BuyMore’s still open for another”—I glance at the cuckoo clock behind the tea bar—“twelve minutes. Besides, I need to pick up something myself.” No need to mention that the thing I need is Wite-Out, assuming they even still make it. There’s something about my evenings with the Smith Corona that still feels too personal to share. “I’ll just go grab—”

“Louie will live.”

“Be right back,” I say more definitively. This is just the kind of mission I need to shake the pre-writers-group adrenaline. Already I’ve hung my sweater over a chair, laying claim to one with four legs and no squishy filling.

Ian lights up when I return fifteen minutes later carrying a plastic BuyMore bag. “Lucy! You’re a lifesaver.”

“Dogs have owners, cats have staff, right?”

I hand him a can, and his face falls. He frowns at his shoes. “Guess I should’ve made it clearer. It’s Fancy Feast Seafood Pâté or nothing. I’m ashamed to say Louie won’t eat this.”

“Ian, Fancy Feast iseighty-eight cents. Louie deserves better. You’ve got to spend at least a dollar a can for such a special kitty.”

“I ... do?”

“On principle.”

“I’m not sure it matters how principled I am if he won’t eat it.”