But Nora is on a roll. She is still talking, her words muffled by blades of grass. “And Joe? He is probably married right now. Or at least has a serious girlfriend or something. She is lovely. An artist. They met in New York. Fuck three times a day, even though they’ve been together for three years now.”
I smile bitterly, relishing the pain that comes with this statement. Because pain, after all, is a feeling, too, and I haven’t felt for so long. She’s probably right. Joe would be twenty-five now. This guy, filled with magnetism, sarcasm, and talent, is a catch. Anyone could see that.
“Good talk, Nor.”
We collect our blanket and head to my car. I drop her off at the funeral home for work, then drive to the post office and send Renn a huge package for his twentieth birthday. I got him funky new socks, ankle length—his favorite—a special Australian wax for his surfboards, and a gift card for Billabong. I add a heartfelt handwritten note. Then I go back home.
I push the door open and head to my room, where I toe off my boots and drop off my backpack. That’s where I usually find the lord of the manor sitting on the far corner of my bed, a look of deep exhaustion on his face. I don’t know what makes cats always look like they are fed up with your shit, but it’s one of the things I admire about them the most.
Only Loki is not here. I stroll to the living room. “Loki Lucifer Lawson, where art thou?” I call out. Normally, he’d meow something that translates to You’re not my real mom at his full name. Not this time.
Has he gone to his sugar daddy again?
I head over to the kitchen and crack a can of Fancy Feast open. I lower it to the floor and make all the noises people make when they want their kitties to show themselves. Nothing happens.
Not again. Have some self-respect, dude.
My pulse kicking up now, I grab my laptop. I power it up and pull up Dom’s email.
I feel like a world-class idiot, coming to him with this for the second time in a month. But maybe Nora is right. Maybe Loki got tired of slumming it up with Two Broke Girls over here and adopted Dom, who lives at the Waldorf Astoria in comparison.
Ever: Hey, Dom, it’s Ever. Loki is missing again. I checked everywhere. I know it sounds bizarre, but is he at your place by any chance?
（I swear I don’t abuse him or anything. I wish I could attribute it to a rebellious phase. But he is ten years old, which is sixty in cat years. Let me ask you—have you ever met a sixty-year-old who is such a pain in the ass?）
P.S. I’ve been wanting to ask how you’re doing since we last spoke, so here I am asking—are you okay?
E.
I’m about to go look for my cat outside. But first, I need to pee. I shut the laptop and amble to the bathroom. After pushing the door open, I’m surprised to feel something solid and fluffy looping around my leg. I look down, and it’s Loki. The bastard.
“Where do you think you’re going, young man?” I’m at his heels. He was in the bathroom all along? What for? It’s not like he can use it. No, he has his own litter box. He takes immense pleasure in watching me clean it every day.
Loki whacks his tail irritably before finding the open can of Fancy Feast and helping himself to an early dinner. I sag against the hallway wall, closing my eyes. I think I’m losing it. I’m too lonely. Too deep in my own head. A ping from my phone alerts me that I have a new email. I take it out of my pocket and swipe the screen. Pulse pounding, I open my email, but the connection is slow, and I find myself pacing from side to side.
Dom: Hey. Nope, sorry. No sign of Loki. But I’ll keep an eye out. P.S. feeling better. Hope you are, too.
My heart sinks. Nothing Dom said is wrong, per se, but it is not very personal either. Another email pops up immediately after.
Dom: But I’m happy to help you look for him if you need me to.
I realize maybe my default was to message Dom because I wanted to message him. Not because of Loki. Nora is right—I have to move on at some point. Dom may not be a mirror image of my soul like Joe was—no man is probably going to be—but he is kind, nice, smart, and hot.
Ever: False alarm. He barricaded himself in the bathroom.
Dom: Grumpiest sixty-year-old in Salem. Glad you found him.
Ever: But . . . I’d still like to meet.
Ever: Do you wanna grab coffee this week?
A beat passes before he answers. I brace myself for another rejection.
Dom: Already told you, Lynne. I like you too much to do friendship.
Ever: Yes, but . . .
But it’s been so long, and I’ve been so lonely, and you are kind, and sweet, and funny . . .