I snort a laugh, wiping water from my forehead before more can drip into my eyes. “Serves you right for running out of the house before the whole damn sky opened up.”
Meow, he grumbles, shaking himself to lose some of the water matting down his fur.
“Well, at least you made it to safety, too.” Puck twines around my legs, tickling me with his half-wet, once-again-fluffy fur. “Wonder if we can make a break for it yet.”
I turn to peer out of the greenhouse as the wind’s howl slides up an octave, only to see a wall of rainwater rolling down it. Looks like we’ll be waiting out the storm here, then.
Now that the adrenaline is wearing off and I know I’m not about to be swept away by a storm, my body’s usual aches （thanks for nothing, mixed connective tissue disease） make themselves known. My elbows and wrists, hips, knees, and ankles pulse with pain. Sitting isn’t going to make it go away, but standing isn’t going to make it better, either, so, on a groan, I ease to the floor. A shiver racks me as the backs of my wet legs connect with the tiles. The greenhouse is, as you’d expect, quite warm, but its floor tiles are still cool.
I slump back onto a bag of potting soil and sigh. Per usual, the cat takes my reclined position as an invitation to help himself to my lap.
“Puck”—a grunt leaves me when a paw hits my ovary—“is it too much to ask that you sit on my lap without squishing my internal organs?” His front paw smashes my boob as he crawls up my chest. I wince reflexively. “This is all your fault, you cantankerous animal. You just had to make an escape and harsh my fun Saturday night vibes.”
The cat plops onto my chest and lazily blinks his mint green eyes, as if to say, What “fun Saturday night vibes”？
“Listen here, you,” I mutter, scratching behind his wet ears because I’m a sucker for this furball, even when he’s a giant pain in my ass, “New Girl reruns and whiskey is the definition of a roaring good time.”
Meow, he says, swishing his tail.
“You’ve got a lot of nerve, throwing that in my face. It’s a monthly horoscope, Puck, and I reserve the right to act on its advice when and how I see fit within the month of July.”
It’s pathetic that I’m arguing with my cat, since really I’m just arguing with myself, but I’ve got no one else to verbally process with right now. My parents are off on one of their postretirement adventures on the other side of the world, which is why I’m house-and cat-sitting. Kate, my little sister, is traveling for work this week, and Bea, my twin, has been holed up in her studio the past few days thanks to a burst of inspiration for her next series of paintings. All my family members have their lives together; they’re happily paired off. Same with my friends. When I’m feeling bad for myself, the last people I want to go to—even though I could go to them for anything—are people whose lives are all wrapped up in the beautiful bow of happily-ever-after.
So it’s just me and the cat left to muddle over what to do with my monthly horoscope:
Time to leave behind the season that left you wrecked and stranded. You aren’t helpless or hopeless anymore. Now, you prove that to yourself. Now you wade into new waters, not knowing what’s on the horizon but trusting the course. Trust yourself to find your way again.
It’s not bad advice. It’s just . . . scary advice. The old Juliet never even needed astrological ordinances to kick her butt into gear. But this new Juliet does. And this new Juliet is also thoroughly afraid to act on them.
Meow, Puck drawls.
I narrow my eyes at him. “You have the audacity to call me a ‘scaredy cat’？ You were hiding under a potting table because you got a little wet!”
Puck opens his mouth, and while I’m thoroughly prepared for another sassy meow, the last thing I expect is the loud, deep snore that I hear instead.
The cat’s eyes and mine widen in tandem. Whereas Puck’s survival instincts wisely kick in, sending him leaping off me and under the potting table for cover, I’m frozen, a sopping, sitting—well, slouching—duck.
Another deep, long snore punctures the quiet inside the greenhouse, snapping me out of my stunned state. Slowly, I ease upright, then onto all fours, crawling only far enough to peer around the edge of the long table that runs down the center of the greenhouse.
There’s no one there.
And yet another snore rumbles from the far end of the greenhouse. Even if I can’t see them, there’s obviously someone in here, and while I want to tell myself that they’re not a threat, seeing as they’re fast asleep, I can’t assume they’re going to stay asleep or that I’ll be safe with them when they wake up. I’ve learned the hard way that assuming the best of people can epically blow up in your face.