A Previous Engagement Read Online Free PDF

for something gross, okay? So just hold Meg still and I’ll—um—shave the area.”
     
    Several paws to the face and muttered swear words later, Meg’s hair-ectomy was deemed a success. She was set loose to enjoy her litter box without obstruction once again, albeit with one embarrassingly bare bottom. We’d certainly come a long way from late-night straw-and-tape bridges.
     
    With a glance at the clock, I began my departure. A pile of unfinished work and a tub of New York Super Fudge Chunk were calling my name, lonely and abandoned, from my own apartment. I also needed to tend to the stinging claw marks on my neck and chest. Anytime I thought I wanted a pet for my lonely apartment, I just had to visit Lucy’s apartment to cure myself of the urge.
     
    “Take some lamb with you, okay?” Lucy handed me a plastic container of leftovers, warm to the touch, and I considered that ice cream for dinner wasn’t the healthiest option.
     
    “Thanks,” I said, hugging her. “I’ll see you next weekend?”
     
    “Oh yeah, sure,” she smiled uneasily. “Just….Tess? One last favor, if you don’t mind.” She slid a brown grocery bag across the counter and I doubted it was filled with delicious baklava by the look on her face. “I need someone to take Mr. Finntastic for a while.”
     
    “Mr. Finn—what?”
     
    “Finntastic.”
     
    I peeked into the bag and found a fish bowl with bright pink rocks and a blue plant, drained of water. A zippered sandwich bag held a royal blue beta fish with long, flowing fins, relaxing with his nose pressed against the plastic.
     
    “Jo tried to eat him. He can’t stay here. He’ll die!”
     
    “So flush him. He’ll be free to swim the Quabbin Reservoir. There aren’t any cats there. At least, not any living ones.”
     
    “Tess!” She looked appalled, just like the time I suggested Ken and Barbie have a naked sleepover in the Dream House.
     
    “Fine, fine. I’ll take your stupid fish. But I’m probably just going to kill it.” She followed me out to the car, placing the bag gingerly onto the floor of the passenger side. After making me promise to feed him every day and make sure the water was around seventy degrees and talk to him before and after work and… lots of other unnecessary things, I left my sister’s apartment and drove home as slowly as possible, so as not to kill the fish with the impact of a speed bump.
     
    Eventually, somewhere along the ten-minute drive, my mind drifted back to more human life-and-death scenarios, like exactly how much work I needed to get done before it was acceptable to watch television. I made a checklist, chose my outfit for the next day, and even laid out the bare bones of my monthly newsletter to the shareholders, all in my head while driving. No one multi-tasks like Tessa Monroe. This is a fact.
     
    Back at home, I ate my dinner straight from the container—still warm—while going through lines and lines of copy, until my eyeballs were dry and sore. I’d just cracked the lid off my ice cream carton and plopped onto my big, cushy sofa when I remembered the fish.
     
    Still sitting in my car.
     
    “Holy crap!” I jumped up from the couch, launching a spoonful of chocolate ice cream into the air, and bolted for the door. “Don’t be dead. Don’t be dead. Don’t be dead , fish!”
     
    Mr. Finntastic was not dead and I was relieved I would not have to buy a replacement and lie to my sister. I scooped up the bag and ran back to the house, stepping on several pointy pebbles in my bare feet along the way. Already the fish was causing harm. Super.
     
    I set Finn—I decided to give him a nickname because Mr. Finntastic is, well, huh—on the kitchen table, bagged my hands in Ziplocs, and started spreading the mold-contaminated, bacteria-infested pink rocks along the bottom of his bowl. I took great care to stand the blue plant upright, exactly in the center of the rocks, and stood back to admire my work. A nice home for