Page 34 of Catfish

Glancing back down at Chase’s message, I shoot him one back.

Me: Did you drop a bomb off, or did the world end?

I mindlessly go through our business’s Instagram page when he texts me back.

Chase: Neither. And you watch too many action movies.

Me: What’s at my door?

Chase: What would get you to look?

Me: Kevin Creekman on his Harley.

Chase: Who?

Me: You live under a rock, don’t you?

Chase: Apparently.

Me: Oh, let's see...a boat?

Chase: You don’t look like you fish.

Me: Nope, but I can sunbathe like a champ.

Chase: I’d like to see that one day.

Me: It’d be in a red bikini, Yank.

Chase: I’ll wear sunglasses.

Me: And you see what’s creepy is that you know there is something at my front door.

Chase: Sox, get off your sweet ass and go look.

Me: Still not tempting enough for me to do that.

Chase: Well, if you don’t go grab it, it’ll die.

My eyes bulge out of my head.

Me: What?!

Chase: God, it’d be...tragic.

I gracelessly jolt out of bed. My covers are persistent on keeping me there, still wrapped around my feet, as I almost face-plant into the floor.

Rounding the corner to head towards my front door, I slip on my waxed hardwood floors, nearly slamming into the wall next.

God, did he send me a kitten?

A goldfish?

A child?

Okay, maybe I do watch a lot of thriller movies, but what the hell could die in a box?!

My dark maroon door awaits the fate of my so-called prize as I whip it open to see several gift bags, all different colors stuffed with various tissue paper.

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