Page 8 of The Date

Unknown number: I can handle myself, sweetheart.

Me: From what I hear, you could wipe the floor with him in Zumba.

Unknown number: I may not be a fighter. But trust me, I wouldn’t need a dance move to take him out.

I’m still floating by the time I reach my apartment and unlock the door. I lean my back against the wood once I close it and let out a breathy sigh.

I send Brendan the address of where I work and what time I finish.

He tells me he’ll be waiting for me when my shift ends, and I’m smiling like a besotted fool.

For the first time since I started working at my new job, I’m actually looking forward to tomorrow.

I get one final text minutes later.

Unknown number: Sweet dreams, Rose … like the flower.

It’s a tad ridiculous that he keeps calling me that, but I don’t exactly hate it.

There’s a bounce in my step as I move across the room towards the birdcage where my parents’ abusive parrot sits perched on his branch. I’m his official babysitter until Mum and Dad return from their trip.

My Mum found him one day while she was gardening. He flew down from a nearby tree and landed on her shoulder, and she could tell straight away that he was tame. She brought him inside and, after trying and failing to find his owners, my parents decided to keep him.

That first night, Mum covered his cage, the one my Dad rushed out and bought. She said goodnight to him, and he replied, “Who’s a pretty Polly? Who’s a pretty Polly? Not you, arsehole.”

We all stood there in stunned silence.

As the days went on, we realised whoever had owned him prior must’ve had a seriously foul mouth, because that was only the beginning of the dreadful things that came out of his beak.

“Hi, Polly,” I say as I untie the rolled-up leather flap, ready to pull it down and cover his cage for the night.

Squawk. “Show us your tits.”

I freeze, staring at the cage. “Seriously, Polly?”

“Fuck off … fuck off.” Squawk. “Who’s a pretty Polly?” he replies.

Back home, nobody ever complained about the bird or his dreadful manners, but my parents didn’t live in an apartment building either. I hate to think what my neighbours think.

“I swear, I don’t know why Mum ever kept you, you naughty bird.” I shake my finger at him, before releasing the flap. “You’re lucky she thinks you’re cute, because if it was up to me, I’d consider putting you up for adoption.”

Squawk. “Who’s a pretty Polly?”

“Definitely not you,” I say as I turn out the light and head towards my bedroom.

I know Melody does Pilates in the mornings; that’s how she met Brendan. So I’m up early, desperate to speak to her and worship the ground she walks on for setting up the best date I’ve ever been on. When she doesn’t answer my call, I quickly jump in the shower.

I try again when I get out, but this time it goes to voicemail, so I text her instead.

Me: Call me back! I need to talk to you about last night.

Surprisingly, three dots appear almost instantly. She’s typing a reply, but I’d rather talk to her in person, so I dial her number again. When she doesn’t pick up, I frown.

Me: I’m trying to call you.

Melody: I’m too mad to talk to you right now.

Me: Oh, no. Has something happened?