Sweet & Spicy Lesbian Short Stories (GirlxGirl)

An Honest Mistake: Part 1

A mistaken transaction turns an embarrassing situation into an exciting second-chance romance.

~

"I made a really bad mistake," I shout into the phone, my heart beating fast. I pace my apartment, doing laps around the coffee table. Meadow watches me curiously from the top of her scratching post, her calico tail swishing.

"Miss, I need you to calm down," Veronica says on the other end, deadpan. She's the receptionist at Feline Pawadise, the cat rescue organization where I got Meadow.

I take a deep breath but it doesn't make me any calmer. "Look, I just submitted a donation on your website. It was supposed to be for a hundred dollars. But you know how the form shows dollars and cents?" I wave a hand at my laptop as if she can see me.

"I'm not familiar with how our donation form works," Veronica says way too calmly. "Dan runs the website. Do you want me to put you through to him?"

"What? No!" I cry. "Although Dan needs to be shouted at, because that donation form is terrible. I swear I added an extra zero-zero for cents, but—"

I rub a hand over my face. I'd meant to donate a hundred.

$100.00.

And yet, after I clicked submit, what did the donation receipt say?

$10000.

I don't know where I went wrong. I must have added the zeroes in the wrong box. Now an amount of ten thousand dollars is about to go through on my credit card.

If I ever meet this Dan person, I'm going to throttle him.

"So I need to refund the donation I just made. I entered the wrong amount," I say, collapsing onto the couch. The worn-out upholstery engulfs me like a much-needed hug.

"You want to refund your donation to a charity?" Veronica asks flatly, judgment dripping.

My face heats up. "I want to donate, but not that much. I can't afford that. I'm probably going to get a call from my credit card company soon."

"Okay. I'll put you through to Devi. She handles our donations and accounting. What's your name?"

I sit taller, struggling with the couch. "Thank you. It's Sarah Chow."

"Please hold."

Tinny hold music blasts my eardrum.

Meadow hops down from her scratching post and comes to sit on my lap, maybe sensing my distress. I pet her back. The feel of her fur and the sound of her purring soothe my panic.

Maybe the transaction hasn't gone through yet. Maybe it's just a matter of canceling it instead of issuing a refund.

What kind of monster asks for a refund from a charity, anyway?

Meadow nudges her head into my palm, and I realize I'm frozen. I continue petting, and her purring resumes.

Today is her one-year adoption anniversary, and I thought I would celebrate by making a donation to the charity who matched her with me. It guts me to have to ask them to cancel a huge donation, but what am I supposed to do? They'll understand that it was an honest mistake, right?

I'd love to be the type of person who donates ten thousand dollars to a cat charity. But right now, I'm twenty-five, just out of college, and making the bare minimum at a marketing firm.

One day, I'll be the president of my own marketing firm, and it'll be so successful that I'll send massive donations to every cat rescue in the world without a second thought.

The hold music continues, and I pet my beautiful calico soulmate for a long time until she has enough and walks away.

My stomach grumbles. I get up to make breakfast, imagining the transaction soaring through cyberspace, getting closer and closer to my credit card.

I boil water, make instant coffee and instant oatmeal, and stir them slowly. What is taking so long?

I pull out a bar stool and get started on the oatmeal.

The hold music stops. There's a click.

"Hello, Feline Pawadise, this is Veronica," the receptionist says in her deadpan tone.

"No!" I cry through a mouthful of oatmeal, my heart sinking. I swallow hard. "I mean, hi, I was on hold to talk to Devi?"

"Oh. She must be busy. Hang on."

Back to the obnoxious hold music.

Devi's name swims at the back of my mind, making my heart beat a little faster. I remember her from when I adopted Meadow. I thought about her a lot after that day—wondering about all the things I did and didn't do. Wondering if I read her correctly. Wondering if we would cross paths again. Hoping, really.

The music stops. There's a click.

"Hello, Feline Pawadise, this is Veronica," the receptionist says.

I hang up, and scream into my apartment.

"I'm going there in person," I tell Meadow, who looks at me with a lot of judgment for that outburst. "I'm sorry. I'll buy a can of tuna for you on my way home, and we'll celebrate your big day."

I brush my teeth, then change out of my pajamas and into the same preppy outfit I wore to work yesterday—a short, black-and-yellow plaid skirt, long-sleeved black shirt, and black flats. It's a little formal for a cat rescue, but I'm too frazzled to try and piece together anything else. I pull my dark hair into a high ponytail, grab my bag and sunglasses, and head out the door.

It takes me half an hour to get there by bus. That's thirty whole minutes for the donation to go through on my credit card.

The transaction is definitely done by now. Shit. I guess I'm asking a charity for a ten-thousand dollar refund today.

Feline Pawadise is a nondescript unit at the back of a strip mall, nestled between a bagel shop and a pharmacy. Faded and peeling cat stickers cover the windows and glass door. They could use a face lift, but I guess it's nice to know that they use their donation money for the cats and not aesthetics.

I open the door, and step into a place that smells very strongly like cats and cleaning products. The reception desk is to the left. To the right, a few people work at desks that look like they came straight out of the 90s. On the opposite wall, a door leads to the back, which I passed through last time to see the cats and adopt Meadow.

I stride up to the reception desk. Veronica is a pale, middle-aged blond woman wearing a t-shirt with a faded picture of three kittens on it.

"Hi, Veronica, it's Sarah Chow," I say, a little calmer now that I've had thirty minutes to simmer down on the bus.

"Oh. Hi." Veronica doesn't seem surprised to see me here. Does anything faze her?

"Hi. I was just panicking to you on the phone. Can I please talk to Devi?"

"Sure, let me call her." She picks up the phone and punches in what I assume is an extension.

She waits. And waits.

Oh, for God's sake.

"Maybe you should go get her in person," I say. "Does she usually ignore her phone this much? What if she's on the floor of her office and needs help?"

Veronica ignores me. She hangs up, then dials again. And we wait.

The door to the back swings open, and a woman my age emerges carrying a thick, blue binder. She's in tan, high-waisted cargo pants and a white tank top, a sliver of brown skin peeking through at her stomach. As she lays the binder on Veronica's desk, my gaze draws to her very toned arms. She's sporting a short, masculine cut that frames the angles of her face.

My heart stops. Devi.