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In the dead of night, I opened my eyes to see Bea’s pouty, Laneige-coated lips. For weeks, she’d left that lip mask in the graveyard of an online cart. She never clicked Confirm Payment. So I bought it for her. I wanted to show that I was thinking of her. Listening to her. Working for her.
I traced the familiar splattering of Bea’s freckles, nourished by the Bahamas’ harsh sun. The beginnings of sunburn blossomed on her nose bridge and cheeks. She’d shriek at me. Hour after hour, like some contemptuous banshee. Demand I rub aloe over her irritated skin. When I applied the gel, she’d flip a switch. Soften. Thank me for indulging her. For not yelling at her. Sometimes she’d just cry. Hold her arms out. Even though she was slathered in aloe and snot and tears, I’d hug her. Then she’d thank me for that too. Not sure why.
(Would Brad rub aloe on her? Would he hug her, in that state?)
Bea was complicated; I was simple. Even if she tossed all of my things out the window, and I’d have to do the walk of shame to and from the yard and my car, I’d leave without a fuss: no drama, no screaming, no nothing. At most, I’d cat-nap Donut. But Bea was planning on getting rid of her anyway.
Yet, with a single Instagram picture, four years slipped through my fingers. Ruptured. Just like that.
(Had her love for me dissipated in a steady trickle? Or was it all at once?)
Donut propped Bea’s framed picture on the nightstand. Ever since she’d received it from that box, I’d catch her headbutting the photo. To show affection. To offer her warmth. As if Bea could receive it. As if Bea was somewhere out there, alive.
An unprecedented, almost foreign feeling tightened my chest. Thought I didn’t care. Maybe I convinced myself I didn’t. Refused to let the viewers see my soft innards. The yolk. The scrambled mess.
It hurt to see Bea, though not in the way I thought it would. It didn't sting. It didn't enrage. It was a calm, dull ache. One that I could stifle to save face in front of Donut. She loved that picture; it brought her a sliver of joy in this god-forsaken place. Donut was my sliver. I couldn't ruin her excitement.
If I reacted negatively, the system would keep throwing my past in my face. They could subject me to fight impossible what-the-fucking-hell-is-that’s for their entertainment. But they couldn't break me. Nobody could.
Despite all odds, I found respite in a safe room. With Donut curled around my throat, purring like a six-cylinder engine, I thought, This is as good as it gets. This was the one place where I could be true to myself. For once, I let it happen.
Privately, in my own head, I admitted that I didn't like Bea sitting there. She was encroaching on my space. On the relaxation I’d earned. We’d earned—me, Donut, and Mongo. Like some territorial mutt, I wanted my pack to be separate. And before I knew it, I was reaching over to the nightstand, bicep straining from an awkward angle. Tugged like a marionette by my half-conscious whims.
I’m doing this, aren’t I?
I moved slowly, trying my best not to jostle Donut awake. She needed her self-proclaimed beauty rest. And I wasn’t about to invite her avoidable wrath. The frame was cool to the touch. Not a speck of dust. Donut proved to be a useful feather-duster. I shifted it to face away from the bed, ever-so-slightly. Donut would sense something was up if I fully flipped it. She was too perceptive for her own good, sometimes.
My hand returned to my side. For a while, I stared at the ceiling. Inspected the rotting planks that served as our shelter for the night. Then I closed my eyes, focusing on Donut’s rhythmic noises. It felt good to do that. It felt good to have some control. The faux fireplace crackled at my feet.
“Oh, thank goodness,” Donut said, wide awake. My breath caught. “I cannot believe Bea wore that garish swimsuit in public. Gives me nightmares. I thought she was better than that.”
For some odd reason, Donut’s comment choked me up. I wondered how the hell she could simultaneously see right through me and look right past me. I felt naked. Exposed. But not humiliated.
When I stroked Donut’s soft fur, it was wet. I didn't even realize I was crying until that moment. The last time I got Donut wet, she sent me to the ER. Now she purred, and purred, unbothered by what would normally light her fuse. She was telling me, It's alright.
As I sniffled, Donut head butted my tear-stained cheek. She was a creature bred for grandeur, priss, and stubborn attitude. Yet she was helping me. Even if she didn't exactly understand what I was feeling.
A sense of pride washed over me. Donut was maturing before my very eyes. Not yet. It happened too fast. I wasn't ready to give up being her caretaker. Her human. A selfish part of me wanted her to be a brat forever.
When I gently relocated her to my chest, Donut protested with a weak mewl.
“Tough crowd,” Donut said, only half-joking. She turned in a circle, brushing her tail across my face, and started kneading my sore chest.
The tension vacated my body so quickly, it almost felt like it hadn’t made its home there for decades. It terrified me. I laughed so abruptly it stung. Donut poofed up and smacked me in the face with a paw. No nails, just the pads. No intention to hurt me. Just startled.
“Goddammit, Donut,” I said, off-put by the rasp in my voice. “Go back to bed. That tickles.”