not knowing if he wanted something so serious or was ready to commit. I couldn’t understand why a thirty-nine-year-old man had issues committing, especially when it seems normal to be married with children by thirty-five. After the last time he gave me the same runaround about commitment and our long-term prospects, I told him he could have all the time he needed to figure things out, because I was done.
That relationship taught me that chasing a man isn’t the way to catch one. My grandmother always says that if a man is interested in you, he’ll make that clear without any kind of games, and after Chris, I finally listened. Where that man is I don’t know, but I’m hoping he shows up before I’m fifty and I’ve adopted five more cats.
Shaking off those thoughts, I change into a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, then head to the kitchen for something to eat. Just like yesterday when I looked in my pantry and fridge, I have no food. Well, I do have food. I have a ton of cat food, a box of crackers, and a bit of hummus. I hate grocery shopping. Shopping for clothes or house goods I love. Grocery shopping I avoid like the plague. I have no real self-control, and I always end up with a cartful of junk food, then feel guilty when I eat nothing but garbage for a week straight. Maybe it would help if I didn’t go when I’m starving and think that every item in a colorful box looks delicious.
Knowing I can’t avoid the unavoidable unless I want to eat crackers and hummus for dinner, I pick up my purse and car keys, then head back to the garage.
At the grocery store, I grab a cart and head inside, telling myself that I’ll stick to the outer section of the store. I heard on one of the early-morning shows that you should avoid the inner aisles, that everything you really need is on the perimeter—fruits, veggies, meats, and dairy.
As I’m halfway through the store and feeling good about my choices, a bright-red box catches my attention. I know I shouldn’t gravitate to it, but I can’t help it. Fruity Pebbles are my weakness; there is nothing more delicious than a big bowl of the colorful cereal and ice-cold milk. After I grab the largest box I can find, I’m completely thrown off course. The inner aisles suck me in, and once more I end up checking out with a cartful of junk food. Thankfully, I did get some fruit, so I don’t feel so guilty.
I pack up my car and head home, driving down the main drag past all the local businesses, including the salon. Mount Pleasant is a typical South Carolina town. It’s filled with tourists, but the locals all know each other since most have been here for years. Having traveled often, I can say with authority that there is nowhere more welcoming.
When I drive onto my block, I wave at a few of my neighbors who are outside enjoying the fall weather. I pull into my driveway and frown at a large black dog lying on my front porch. Wondering who the dog belongs to, I pull into the garage. I swing my car door open as the garage door goes down, then let out a scream when the dog appears at my side, startling me.
“Nice puppy,” I say in what I hope is a soothing tone when the dog starts toward me. Its tail begins to wag, and I let out the breath I was holding while I reach out my hand. “Good puppy.” I scratch the top of its dark head, which hits almost the middle of my stomach. “Who do you belong to?” I ask, checking its collar for a tag. When I find one, I read the front and smile at him. “Hey, Bruce.”
He barks, making me jump, and then nudges my hand to give him another rubdown. I pet the top of his head, then flip the tag over and read the name and number on the other side. I pull out my phone and call Tyler Duncan, leave a message with my name and number, and tell him I have his dog.
“I don’t know how my cat’s going to feel about you coming into the house,” I tell Bruce, rubbing his head. “Do you like cats?” He sits with a groan and tips his head to the side like he’s thinking