Sometimes I wonder why I wanted a cat.
Just like I wonder why I try so hard to be independent. If my parents had their way, I would sit back while they funnel an endless stream of money into my bank account. They were both trust fund kids. Their parents arranged their marriage, and they dutifully followed through with it. In their social circle, working for a living is something to be embarrassed about. When I made it clear that I didn’t want to take their handouts, they distanced themselves. A lot. We talk over the phone sometimes, but they have no idea what I’m really doing. I’ve spun a few convenient mistruths just to get them to keep their distance. If they knew the full truth, they would start having airplanes drop money on my house until I gave in and took some.
At least they still have Vanessa to dote over. She’s the perfect daughter. She never minded being given all the money in the world for doing nothing. She’s currently engaged to Edmond Bartley, who was my father’s top pick for me. When it became clear I wasn’t going to agree to what was basically an arranged marriage, he did the only logical thing left to do, he set Edmond up with Vanessa. She spends her days lounging poolside, sipping drinks, attending social events, and planning her obscenely expensive wedding. Which I still haven’t been invited to. Then again, she has been planning the wedding for over a year already, so she may not even have an official date.
Not for the first time, I try to push past the bitterness that rises in my chest when I think about my family. Most families would be proud if their daughter found the amount of success I have. Mine acts like I joined a three ring circus to fulfill a life-long dream of becoming a clown. Screw them though. I’ve made it this far without them, and I’ll keep going on whether they like it or not. All I need is my bakery. And Charles, I guess.
Except there’s no point lying to myself. More than anything, I want a guy. I may not need a guy. But it sure would be nice to have someone around who could make me feel safe and maybe even help shoulder some of the responsibility once in awhile. Even more than a guy, I want a baby. I’m turning thirty-one next month, and my biological clock is ticking like a time bomb. Every time I see babies at the store I feel like my heart is breaking. I can’t help running through the numbers. At thirty-one, I’ll almost be in my fifties by the time my child graduates high school. A few more years and I’ll be fifty before they even start high school. A couple dozen more and I’ll be pushing their stroller with my motorized old lady scooter.
Yeah. I never said my biological clock was reasonable.
It doesn’t help that my love life is a long list of trainwrecks, disasters, and catastrophes. I went through a few phases. Early on, there was the safe stage, where I dated guys I thought my parents would approve of. Then I moved on to the defiant stage, where I dated guys I knew my parents would hate. That lasted a while until at some point I realized I was only hurting myself.
I have never gotten involved with someone that wasn’t in some way related to how I thought my parents would feel, as pathetic and sad as that is. The answer seems simple enough--date someone for me--but after so long, I don’t know what I even want in a guy. I’ve tried dating guys from town and using dating sites to meet guys from the city. I have nothing to show for it, except a few memories I would rather not revisit, ever. Like the time a guy told me he was into “golden showers” on our first date. I thought he was speaking literally, like shower faucets made out of gold. When I looked it up on my phone in the bathroom, I ended up having to escape through the window to avoid going back out there with Mr. Waterworks.
The unifying flaw in all of my relationships is my parents’ money. When guys inevitably find out about my parents’ fortune, they start pushing me to take advantage of it. Whether they want me to beg them for a vacation, a gift, or for just plain old money. That, or they feel threatened by it and distance themselves.
I blow out a long sigh. I can’t even complain to anyone about it. Who’s going to feel sympathy for me? Poor Sandra and her access to ridiculous amounts of money! How hard her life must be! Yeah, it’s not exactly going to bring people to tears, so I just bottle it up, keep my head down, and keep working hard enough to forget.
I decide all my fussing at the movers isn’t actually saving my furniture anyway, so I head outside and get in my car. I’ll run down to the bakery and get a batch of dough proofing for our signature cheese crusted pretzel twists. I was going to do it in the morning, but if I do it now, I’ll have more time to decorate the pastries afterwards.
I start my beat up Camry, wincing. It has been making a sound like a chain smoker’s cough when I turn the key lately. Now every time I go to start it up I cross my fingers that it won’t be the time the old girl finally gives out on me.The engine huffs, wheezes, and grinds.The car starts to shake slightly and then there’s a loud bang.
Smoke hisses out from under the hood.
“Shit!” I yell, slamming my hands down on the steering wheel. I knew I should have brought it in sooner, but Reid is the only mechanic in our small town, and ever since he and Tara divorced, he treats me like the enemy. Even before his neighborly threat, I was dreading having to deal with him.
I glance over toward his shop. I see him standing there, shirtless, rubbing some car part with a greasy red rag. He’s watching the smoke billow from my car. It’s too far to be sure, but I think he’s smirking.
“Cocky bastard,” I mutter. I get out of the car and walk inside, vowing not to ask him to fix it. He thinks I need him. Well he can learn the same lesson my parents did. I don’t need anybody. Besides, I have a few hours to figure out how to fix this thing. I’ll just spend some time on YouTube looking up the problem.
Four hours, two cups of coffee, and twenty incomprehensible videos later, I step outside. It’s past ten. The lights are off in Reid’s shop, but I can see a single light on in his house. I just have to hope it’s dark enough that he can’t see me out here. Worst case scenario, I’ll call for a tow truck and have it taken to the city to someone else.
I bring the little toolkit outside with me that I got when I moved out on my own. I honestly don’t know a whole hell of a lot about tools beyond which one is the hammer and which one is the screwdriver, but how hard can it be?