THE UNSTUCK Kitty
I
make my morning rounds, then stop at Kat’s to work on invoices and create some content posts for Kat’s Cat Café, something I was supposed to do a few days ago, but my schedule has made that a challenge.
“How are things? You’re busier than usual these days,” Kat says as we set up a new toy for the cats to play with.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t stop by earlier in the week. I’ll make up for it on the weekend.”
Tux rushes over and immediately starts playing with the toy, purring happily and then rolling on his back and kicking at his face, as excited cats do. Kat takes photos while I take video footage.
“It’s okay. I just miss your face around here, that’s all.”
“We really need to plan a girls’ night catch-up.” I keep saying this and then something always seems to come up. “What about tomorrow night?”
Kat bites the corner of her lip. “I have a date.”
“Oh! Is this date number two?”
Her eyes light up. “Nope. This is three.”
“Really? What did I miss?”
“We went for coffee yesterday. Tomorrow we’re going for dinner.”
“That’s awesome. I need to hear about this. And we really need to plan something so I can get a full rundown of Friday night.” I feel bad that I haven’t been around as much as I should. Kat is one of my closest friends, and that I missed the second date excitement means I’m slacking on friend duty. I skip lunch in order to get a recap of date two with Brad, and we make a tentative plan to have lunch on the weekend.
I leave to manage my afternoon clients and pick up a few things for dinner on the way home. I find my mom in the living room, leafing through an old photo album. She usually only does this when it’s approaching a birthday. “Hey, Mom, everything okay?”
Her eyes are glassy when she lifts her gaze, as if she’s on the verge of tears. She sets the album on the coffee table and struggles to get the footrest down on the lounger. It’s been giving her more trouble lately, which makes me nervous. I don’t know how she’ll handle it if my dad’s old lounger stops working. I can’t see her being okay with getting rid of it.
“Oh yes, everything’s fine.” The footrest finally goes down with a grinding metallic squeal and a clunk. “I was giving the shelves a dust and I pulled an album down and well . . . ” She motions to the stack on the floor. “You know how that goes.”
“I could give you a hand with that after dinner,” I suggest.
“I can finish it up tomorrow since it’s my day off. Let me help put the groceries away.”
She follows me to the kitchen, and we unload the bags together.
“You’ve been gone a lot lately,” she muses as she transfers the oranges to the fruit bowl.
“I’ve been helping out a new client with his cat,” I explain.
“Which client is this? I get them confused since you have so many.” She sets the canned tomatoes on the counter, along with the tomato paste. Tonight we’re having lasagna soup for dinner.
I fill my mother in on Prince Francis, who I’ve mentioned before, and she hums and nods, but I’m not sure she’s paying attention.
“His mother is going into a home soon, and he’s not sure if she’ll be able to take the cat with her. I’m hoping she can, or else Miles will have to find a new home for Prince Francis.” I grab two onions and the cutting board, then move around the kitchen, pulling out ingredients for the soup while we chat.
“What kind of cat is it again? Hopefully not one that will be hard to find a home for,” Mom asks absently.
“A sphynx. They’re usually in high demand, so I doubt finding him a new human will be too difficult, but he can be destructive.”
“You’ll fix that, though.”
“I’m working on it.”
“Smokey was such a well-trained cat. I remember when your sister was a baby, and he would lie under her crib and then come
get me in the morning when she was ready to be fed.” Mom smiles wistfully. “I miss those days sometimes.”
“Yeah, me too. He was a great cat.” I swallow down the sadness that comes with thinking about Smokey. All the great memories I had of him as a child are tainted by a single event that changed our entire family. Normally, the second he started pulling on the screen, I would let him in. Except that one time.
Still, I wander down memory lane. “He used to follow Dad around like a shadow after dinner, waiting for him to sit in his recliner so he could take up residence in his lap.”
“He was your dad’s cat, that’s for sure,” Mom muses.
She’s right, he was, and a few months after he passed, Smokey ran away. One day I let him out for his morning frolic in the backyard, and he never came home. I feel as though I’m experiencing the sadness I associated with these memories through a window, a protective barrier from the pain.
Hattie messages to say she’s going to be home later and not to wait on her for dinner.
“Are you here tonight? Maybe we can play a game of Farkle after we watch
Jeopardy
.” Mom asks.
I hate to say no to my mom, but I need to get the situation with Prince Francis under control. “I’m going back to my client’s house for the night. I’m trying to extinguish some bad behaviors, and Prince Francis isn’t used to being alone all the time. But maybe tomorrow night?”
“That would be lovely, dear. I think it’s wonderful that you’re so dedicated to your job.”
“I really do love it.” But as I sit here, eating dinner at the table set for three, my dad’s spot empty, though full of the weight of his memory, I realize that staying at Miles’s mother’s house has felt like a mini vacation. And that’s saying something considering the emotional ghosts that live there.
I mull that over while I help clean up the dinner dishes. How Miles’s house is full of memories he’s trying to escape, while I’m trying to hold on to mine. It’s almost like I’ve put my life on pause every time I walk through the door and stay that teenage girl. Any time my mom suggests redecorating, I’ve been the one to say I love it the way it is. But maybe I just love the memories. Even if the most pervasive one is a black cloud hanging. Like Toby’s bedroom, mine hasn’t changed much since I was sixteen. I see the parallels: his is a shrine to a life none of his family live anymore. And mine is a shrine to the days before I lost my dad.
I’m packing an overnight bag when there’s a knock on my bedroom door. “Come in!” I call out as I stuff in a pair of pajamas.
Hattie pops her head in. “There’s a pile of photo albums on the living room floor. Please tell me you didn’t have to sit with Mom and listen to a story that went with every single photo.”
“Uh no. I redirected us to the kitchen to make dinner before that could happen.”
She closes the door behind her and drops into my computer chair. “Oh phew. I thought you’d gotten sucked in and I wasn’t here to save you, and then I would have felt bad. Are you going somewhere?”
I don’t mind going through old photo albums. In fact, it’s more likely to be me pulling them off the shelves, but I leave that thought alone and explain that I’m staying another night at a client’s house.
“Is this the client with the hottie owner?”
“The hottie son, yes.”
“Is he staying over, too?”
“No, he’s not.” At least not that I’m aware. My heart leaps around in my chest at the possibility, though. So silly. I’m clearly holding on to his offhand comment about dinner too tightly.
“I’m going for drinks with some friends from school tonight. You can come with if you want.” Hattie grabs one of my cat stress balls and tosses it from one hand to the other.
“I need to do some training with Prince Francis tonight, but thanks for the invitation.” I add an outfit for tomorrow to my bag, and my mini handheld steamer.
Hattie spins around once in my chair. “Can I say something?”
“Sure?” I drag out the word, uncertain of her tone.
“I know you love your job, Kitty, but sometimes I wonder if maybe you love it too much.”
I stop what I’m doing and give her my full attention. “How do you mean?”
She taps on the arm of the chair. “You’re blowing me off to hang out with a cat.”
“I’m being paid to take care of someone’s pet.” There’s a difference. Also, I seem to have a crush on the son of the owner.
“Which I understand, but you can’t have one quick drink with
me and some friends? Do something social? Go out and see other human beings close to your own age and not someone’s grandmother who basically wants your help, so they have someone to talk to for a couple of hours?” She raises a hand when I start to protest. “I’m not saying you shouldn’t take your job seriously, or that there isn’t merit in you being a friendly face for elderly cat owners, but sometimes I think, particularly in situations such as these, your job is kind of a convenient excuse
not
to come out.”
“I’m not the biggest fan of crowds.” I’m making another excuse, and I’m not sure why. I feel safest online, being the Kitty Whisperer with followers who post heart eyes. In real life, there are conversations, and while I love what I do, not everyone thinks cat sitting is a real job. So when someone dismisses me or thinks what I do is “cute,” I’m compelled to defend my career. And that often leads to feeling insecure. The last time I went out with Hattie was to some house party. I ended up in a group of people I didn’t know, and when I told them what I did for a living, they thought it was a joke. They weren’t my sister’s actual friends, but it still wasn’t my favorite night, and I would like to avoid a repeat.
“It’s a small group at a pub. You’ve met most of them before. I’m not saying you have to come tonight, but you’re allowed to have a social life. I know groups can make you nervous, but sometimes it’s good to step outside of our comfort zone, don’t you think?”
I bite the inside of my cheek. Today I’d already been thinking about how my life is on pause. Maybe she’s right. Maybe this is
a good way to hit the Play button. And if I’ve already met these people, it’s not too far outside my comfort zone. “Okay. I’ll come for a drink.”
“Yay! I promise you won’t regret it!” She pushes out of the chair and wraps her arms around me. “Let’s pick an outfit!”
I run my hands over my hips. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”
Hattie gives me a look. “This is fine for old people with vision problems. Not so much for the pub.”
Half an hour later I’m sandwiched between my sister and one of her classmates. Everyone is familiar except the guy I’m sitting next to, Hattie’s classmate named Bryce. His hair has a perfect swoop that reminds me of boy bands and ski jumps. It’s also very blond, and so are his eyebrows. He looks sort of like a cross between a Disney character and a cartoon superhero. He’s also very, very chatty.
And braggy. And he burps a lot. I have a feeling he ate either Caesar salad or garlic bread for dinner, because every so often a garlic and beer–scented burp wafts my way. It’s a challenge not to grimace every time it happens. Instead, I plaster on a smile and try to follow the conversation, but it isn’t easy with all the hot garlic wind.
“Are you still in college, too? I’ve never seen you on campus. I’m in the final year of my PhD.”
“Oh wow. That’s a lot of education. And dedication. What are you studying?” I ask. This is good. If I can keep him talking, then I don’t have to answer questions. When I’m with old people or cats, I don’t have to worry about making an ass out of myself.
“I’m taking alien studies.”
I blink a few times, waiting for a punchline, but one apparently isn’t coming. I wonder if my expression is the same as other people’s when I tell them I cat sit and train them. “Oh, that’s really . . . interesting. What kind of job would you get with that? Would you work for NASA?”
“Oh no. NASA is only looking for rocket scientists and people with engineering degrees. Or at least that’s what all my rocket scientist friends are saying.” He waves a hand around in the air. “I fell in love with aliens when I watched
E.T.
as a kid. Have you seen that movie? The one from the eighties?”
“Oh wow. Yeah. I’ve seen it. He’s obsessed with Reese’s Pieces, isn’t he? The E.T. character?” This is an exceptionally odd conversation.
“Oh yeah, totally obsessed.” Bryce nods exuberantly and burps again.
“If you’re not in college, what do you do?” he asks.
“I’m a professional cat sitter.”
He blinks once, twice, a third time, and then throws his head back and guffaws. It draws the attention of the surrounding tables, which in turn makes my face feel hot. When I don’t join in, his expression sobers and his eyes round with shock. “You’re serious?”
This coming from a guy who went into alien studies because of a Reese’s Pieces–loving Hollywood-created extraterrestrial. “Yup. I own my own business.”
He frowns. “You can make a living off of that?”
This isn’t an uncommon reaction to my job, but it is frustrating. “There’s a woman who makes six figures from farting in jars. Why can’t cat sitting be lucrative enough to pay the bills?”
“Cats are kind of assholes, though. Like, dog sitting I get. They need to be let out and taken for walks. Cats are just doorstops that crap in a box,” Bryce says.
“They’re just as affectionate as dogs, and they need just as much love and care,” I argue.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, which is a relief because I’m getting heated. More than just in my face. I check the message, half hoping it’s an emergency. It’s not urgent, but it is Miles. Listening to Bryce crap all over my job isn’t my idea of a good time. But if Miles were here . . . On a whim made out of panic and kneejerk reactions, I invite him to the pub. It isn’t until after I hit the Send button that I realize it probably isn’t the best idea to invite the guy I have a crush on to a pub with my sister and her friends.
“Everything okay?” Bryce asks, seemingly oblivious to how much he’s offended me.
“Yup. Everything’s fine.”
I proceed to panic-chug the rest of my drink and order another while Bryce tells me about the time he was abducted by an alien. It’s better than him insulting my job, but not by much.
“I was only eight years old when it happened. It was the middle of the night, and I had a feeling, you know? I looked out my window and there was a UFO in the sky. I opened my window to get a better look, and then a huge spotlight shone
down on the side of my house and boom.” He snaps his fingers. “I was beamed up to the mothership.”
“Wow. That must have been surreal.” I need to ask my sister where the hell she met this guy, and why she stuck me beside him. Unfortunately, asking her right now would be rude, as she’s currently flirting with a guy who looks a lot like Chris Evans’s younger brother.
“I was prepared for the worst,” he says solemnly.
“Like being anally probed?” I joke, sort of.
“That’s actually a myth. Aliens don’t do that.” He stretches his arm across the back of the seat and leans in close, as if he’s about to tell me a secret.
Which is the exact moment I spot Miles walking through the bar. He’s wearing a suit and his glasses, and he looks so good. Like a sexy, nerdy, suit-wearing smart guy who crunches numbers like gym junkies crunch their abs. I raise my hand in the air and wave it around to catch his attention. For a moment his face lights up when he sees me. It makes my stomach somersault. And then his gaze shifts to my right, where Bryce is close talking in my ear. I consider how it must look to Miles. Here I am, inviting him to the pub while some random weirdo chats me up. About aliens.
“Can you excuse me for a second? My friend just arrived.”
“Huh?” Bryce asks.
“I need to get out.”
“Oh. Right. Okay.” Bryce seems confused.
So does Miles.
But Bryce slides over, and I hop out of the booth, moving across the room to where Miles stands, looking uncertain and maybe like he’s trying to shoot lasers at Bryce with his eyeballs. I rush over to him, and because I’m still in panic mode and thinking with only my hormones and none of my brain cells, I do something absurdly mortifying.
“I’m so glad you’re here, and I’m so sorry for what I’m about to do. Please go with it. That guy sitting beside me is certifiable, and I need him to get a clue.” I grab the lapels of his suit jacket and push up on my toes. Then I mash my lips against his.