“Baileys was specifically created to go in milkshakes,” Elena says. She follows me in. Like mine, her arms are laden with the bags of alcohol and junk food we’ve picked up at the bodega down the street.
“Cat Stevens is not going to be pleased. He hates it when I use the blender.”
I cross to the kitchen, drop my bags on the island, and pull the blender out anyway. One of the bags topples over, sending Doritos and Oreos and candy bars sliding across the white countertop.
“Who’s Cat Stevens?” Elena pulls the ice cream out of her bag and slides it toward me.
“My cat.”
“You don’t have a cat,” she says with unwarranted certainty. She doesn’t even look around for one as she says it. “I’d have seen pictures.”
“Clearly, you wouldn’t have.” I find a grapefruit spoon for the ice cream because I don’t have a proper scoop.
“There would be cat hair on your clothes.”
“You think I’m the kind of person who would choose a cat that sheds?” I’m a little offended by the thought of it. “He’s probably hiding under the bed from us. Feel free to try to lure him out.”
While she goes in search of Cat’s doubtless disapproval, I carve off chunks of ice cream, dump them into the blender, and tilt the Baileys up until half the contents have glugged out. It smells delicious, like it really is some magical ingredient specifically created to improve something as already delightful as ice cream.
“This is nice,” Elena says as I pour them into my sixteen-ounce smoothie glasses. She seems to have stalled in the living room and is standing in one place, slowly spinning to take in my apartment from different angles.
“Very elegant,” she adds politely.
I cross the room and hand her one of the milkshakes before studying the decor with her. It surprises me that I’ve been more excited about the food than to show off my home. I faithfully followed the principles of Chez Chic after the Husband Huntress explained that your living space is a potential partner’s best insight into who you are behind closed doors. The place turned out well, despite all Chez Chic’s warnings about color being tacky making me too nervous to buy anything that wasn’t museum white. I do, however, worry what, exactly, this place says to potential partners. If we have children, I’ll have to keep them in cages to prevent stains was not my intended message, but it does seem to be the one I’ve landed upon.
My nose wrinkles as I see it all through Elena’s eyes. The expensive couch that’s as comfortable as a church pew. The tasteful art that makes me feel nothing. This isn’t a home; it’s a Friendsta post. And if that really is the case, maybe I can walk away without breaking any promises to myself.
I could rent someplace cheaper. Create a strict budget. Maybe even sell some things to add to my financial cushion, giving myself time to find work as a freelance graphic designer. It’s not what Seeking Security would advise—a responsible person should invest in property instead of spending on rent—but it’s not crazy. I could do it responsibly. I’d just have to think of it as an investment in my dreams. My dreams—for once—not the dreams I’d been instructed to have.
“Thanks,” I say. “But it’s not mine anymore. I’m moving out.”
* * *
—
I’m doing a drunken version of yoga when Elena has the idea. The Baileys is long gone, along with the first bottle of wine. I’ve got a straw in my wineglass, though, and I’ve found that I can bend my head toward it no matter what shape the rest of my body is stretched into. Cat Stevens is watching me from under the entertainment center, clearly unimpressed by my efforts. Or maybe it’s just the loud music he’s taken umbrage at.
“You should go to Africa tomorrow and meet up with your friends now that you’re on vacation,” Elena yells as she dances on the coffee table. “Do you know where they’re staying?”
“I could check the emails.” I do downward dog and sip the wine through the straw. “They planned most of it on our running group chain.”
“I’ll check flights while you pack.” She intentionally falls backward from the table to the couch, wincing as she hits the cushions.
I laugh and reach for the remote to turn down the music. “Did you forget how hard it was?”
“I don’t know how you sit on this.” She wriggles around as if there might be a more comfortable spot. “Go on. Start packing. And don’t worry about Cat Stevens. I can pop in and feed him while you’re gone.”