Pretty Little Mistake

The second I step inside my apartment, I loosen my tie enough to shuck it across the hall in the direction of my bedroom. I like dressing up—it makes me feel more together—but by the end of the day, the tie has to go.

Cheddar meows, rubbing between my legs. I bend down, pulling the ultrasound photos we got from the doctor out of my pocket. I was glad they gave us enough for me to take some too.

“Look, Cheddar.” I show the chubby cat the black-and-white photos. “That’s your brother or sister.”

He takes one paw and bats at it before hissing and running to hide under the couch.

Standing, I chuckle. “Well, that went well.” I’m sure that’s close to what I can expect with an actual infant too.

In my kitchen, I stick the string of photos onto my fridge with a magnet. After grabbing a beer, I settle on my couch and turn the TV on, looking for some mindless sitcom to watch. I had dinner before I came home, because I wasn’t in the mood to cook something.

Cheddar’s paw slides out from under the couch, batting at my foot. “You’re really not excited about a sibling.” He meows in response, a small sad-sounding one instead of his usual aggressive, almost growl-like meow.

“Come on out from there.” I bend over, trying to coax him out. “Ow, you fucker!” I sit up, inspecting my finger, which now has a cut on it from his sharp claws. “A baby will be a piece of cake after putting up with you.”

He meows as if to say, Fuck you.

Trying to focus on the TV proves impossible when my mind keeps wandering. It’s been hours since I parted ways with Lennon, but I find myself wondering what she’s up to. I know I shouldn’t do it, but I have her number now, so I send her a text.

Me: How are you feeling?

It’s a few minutes before she responds. That shouldn’t bother me, but I find myself wondering if she’s okay, especially since she’s spoken about how sick she’s been getting.

Lennon: Just got out of the shower. I’m feeling fine.

Lennon: I’m kind of surprised you’re texting me. What are you doing?

Me: Watching TV and sparring with my cat.

Lennon: YOU HAVE A CAT?!

Me: Don’t sound so surprised.

Lennon: But I am! I didn’t picture you as a pet person.

Me: Cheddar’s offended.

Lennon: His name is Cheddar?! That’s so cute.

Me: <picture attachment>

Lennon: He’s so fluffy and cute! Is that a birthday hat on him?

Me: Yes.

Lennon: Why?

Me: It was his birthday.

Lennon: You celebrate your cat’s birthday?

Me: Sure. He deserves to be celebrated. He gets the fancy cat food and everything. It was a tradition his previous owner started and I felt bad to stop it.

Lennon: Previous owner? Don’t tell me you killed someone to steal their cat.

Me: You’re not funny. Peter was struggling to get around and felt like he couldn’t take care of him anymore, so I took him.

Lennon: Wow. That’s actually kind of sweet of you.

Me: Thank you. I think.

Lennon: This is weird right? Us talking like this?

Me: We’re texting. There’s a difference. One’s where you use your mouth to make sounds and the other you tappy-tap your fingers on the phone and type out words.

Lennon: Smart-ass.

Lennon: I’m getting in bed. It’s not even late, but your spawn makes me tired.

Me: I appreciate you taking care of my pet sperm.

Lennon: GAG. You did NOT just call our BABY a pet sperm. Gross.

Me: It kind of is though.

Lennon: I hate you.

I swallow thickly, my fingers hovering over the screen as I stare at those words. Lennon has every right to hate me. I hurt her when we were teenagers, and now I’ve completely turned her whole world upside down as adults.

Me: You should.

Lennon: I was kidding.

Lennon: Sort of.

Lennon: I hated you for a long time.

I deserve that. To see those words. Feel them. Have them echo through my skull. I never told her, but I was in love with her. Sure, it was a young, teenage kind of love, but it was real. I didn’t intend to hurt her. And even though for a long time I thought I hated her, too, it was actually me that I hated. For being weak, for listening to others.

Me: You should still hate me.

She doesn’t respond right away, so I figure she might’ve dozed off. I flip through the channels for a few minutes, my own eyes heavy. Cheddar finally emerges from beneath the couch.

“Do you want your dinner now?” I ask him with a raised brow. He doesn’t answer, but I take his glare as response enough.

Cheddar follows me to the kitchen, tail swishing. He meows when I open the can, rubbing against my legs. He starts to purr, and I take that to mean I’ve been forgiven.

For the moment at least.

I set his bowl down, deciding to shower and head to bed.

I’ve barely put my head on the pillow when my phone vibrates with a text message. I should ignore it, but curiosity eats at me, wondering if it’s Lennon.

Her response is one single word: Why?

I hesitate for a moment, then start typing.

Me: Because, no matter how you look at it, I’ll always be the villain in your story.

I don’t want to know if she responds, so I power my phone off, roll over, and force myself to go to sleep.

I’m not the right guy for Lennon.

She needs to remember that.

And so do I.