Page 48 of Rafferty's Rules
‘But why? Why now? Why not screw your fake girlfriend?’
‘You know, for a fake girlfriend, you’re really playing the part. Picking and nagging and digging the knife in like a pro.’ And, like the arse I am, I even throw in a few actions, maybe even a mean face. ‘Have you ever thought that’s why I need a fake girlfriend? Why I don’t want to get involved? Maybe it’s because I could do without the earache!’
‘Deflect, deflect, deflect.’ She throws her hand into the air, cuddling the furball to her chest. ‘Fine. You play that game. But we both know that’s not the truth.’
‘Maybe I’m just tired of dating psychos,’ I answer, the wind immediately dropping out of my sail because I’m a prick. Instead of hurting her, I really should have told the truth.
Because I really don’t trust myself.
‘You’re an ass.’
Then she and her little pussy storm from the room.
I feel like a prisoner in my own kitchen, but after bottle of beer number two, I’m calm enough to do what needs to be done. Namely apologise. At least for shouting at her.
I find her out on the deck, sitting on the corner sofa set with the tiny kitten wobbling on its paws between her legs.
‘So... Cat, you say.’ She nods rapidly, refusing to give in to a wobbling bottom lip.
I hate to see chicks cry. Usually, it’s for selfish reasons, but it feels a bit different this time.
‘Cat, the cat?’
‘Like in the movie,’ she murmurs.
‘You know he can’t stay, don’t you?’
‘Of course, I do, but I just couldn’t leave him.’
‘So you said.’ I sit behind her, then fold her into my arms. Me cuddling Lissa while Lissa cuddles the cat that looks like a rat. ‘We’ll take him to the shelter tomorrow, yeah?’ Under my chin, her head moves.
I hope to hell that was a yes.
‘What else did you do today?’ The weather has turned a little cool tonight, the first sign that autumn is on its way. Lissa sits at the table wearing my hoodie, cooing to Cat the cat curls on her lap, wrapped in a towel, content to be fed bits of chicken from her plate.
I’m pleased someone is enjoying the food.
‘What?’ She looks up, eyes like a rabbit caught in a headlight.
‘This is doing nothing for my confidence.’
‘Like you need help,’ she scoffs mildly.
‘So you’d think.’ I stretch out in my chair, linking my fingers behind my head. ‘I’m afraid the male ego is a very delicate thing.’
Her expression changes immediately from playful to closed off in the blink of an eye. ‘Yeah, so I’ve heard.’
‘And so you’ve experienced.’ Fingers still linked together, I rub them aggressively against my head. ‘Shit, my bad. Sorry, Lis. I didn’t think.’
‘That’s okay. It’s not your fault that the male ego is as fragile as a woman’s heart.’
‘That’s pretty profound.’
‘For something found scrawled in a bathroom stall.’
We both chuckle, though I can’t move on from the statement as it revolves around my head. Is a woman’s heart any more fragile than a man’s? I wouldn’t have thought so. I’ve been around my share of crying women—during breakups mainly. My own and my brothers. I’ve been both the shoulder to cry on and the inadvertent cause of tears, but I never got the sense that hearts were breaking. Not unless heartbreak leads to the overwhelming desire for revenge. And while I can’t profess to having been left broken-hearted by a woman, I’m familiar with the bone-aching depth of sorrow and grief. Seems to me, it doesn’t matter whether you’re a man or a boy when you lose your father, the pain is like a wave with a very distant end.
‘You okay over there?’ Lissa’s voice pulls me back into the now.
