by Alison Kent
Comfortable enough that Cilla hadn’t thought twice about kissing him.
She’d put her hand on his shoulder, stood on her tiptoes, and pressed her lips to his scruffy cheek. It had startled her, how coarse the scruff was, how warm his skin was, how right it felt to take that liberty without asking. The rest of what she felt...
Dizziness spun her as if she’d been on a theme park ride, not in Cary’s kitchen, not in Hope Springs. A quiver had risen from the base of her spine, tickling her ear lobes, her collarbone, her toes. Blood pressure, she’d told herself. Exhaustion, she’d insisted. She’d been wrong on both counts. What she’d felt was all Cary.
The gesture had been spontaneous. And she would’ve easily brushed it off as a momentary lapse and continued putting the kitchen to rights except that Cary had stiffened, going as rigid as the chair she’d sat in too long while preparing the stew.
That’s when she’d excused herself, needing to regroup as much as she’d needed to pee. Because the simple kiss hadn’t been simple at all. It had been as complex as the flavors infused into the meal they’d shared. The present had rolled into the past and been gathered up as if by a tumbleweed. Or a tornado. Until there was no separating what had happened between them years ago from what was happening now.
She sighed, thinking of Cary’s hands on the knife as he’d mangled the roast, as he’d torn off a chunk of the sourdough loaf from Bread and Bean and slathered it with butter, as he’d spooned up bites of the meat and vegetables swimming in the thick gravy.
She’d been back in Hope Springs less than a week. A matter of days, of hours. And she was still unable to shake the unexpected jolt that had hit her in that moment on the sidewalk outside the bakery when she’d looked up into his eyes.
The feelings were the same ones she’d suppressed in high school. Feelings she hadn’t known what to do with because Cary had been so hard to approach, so hard to read. She hadn’t had the maturity to appreciate him then. Now she felt equally ill-equipped.
They were both adults. It made no sense that she’d been struck by the jitters and butterflies of a teen with a crush. Unless... She rubbed her hands up and down her arms and swallowed hard against the nerves rising to unbalance her.
Through the window over the sink, she could see Cary sitting on the porch steps. There was an orange tabby rubbing its face against his left leg, its tail stroking possessively. Cary seemed oblivious, his gaze focused alternately on the distance and his clasped hands.
The cat gave her an idea, a place to start because they couldn’t let this uneasiness wedge itself between them. It wouldn’t do as roommates. It wouldn’t do as friends.
She blew out a weighty breath, wrapped her cardigan tightly around her, and opened the back door to join him. She held onto the porch rail as she lowered herself to sit. The cat stationed itself on the step between their feet, its haughty gaze judging the both of them.
“Aren’t you cold?” she asked.
“Not really,” he said, blowing into the cup of his hands anyway. “The stew warmed me plenty. Thank you, by the way. That was great.”
“You’re welcome.”
She didn’t want to get into a back-and-forth of no thanks being necessary or pitching in being part of her room and board or him doing an equal amount of the work. She wanted, instead, to understand why being around him made it so hard to breathe.
Overhead, the sky through the web of bare tree limbs and the evergreens holding fast to their leaves was a soft dove-gray, the wind still, the air crisp like a tart apple. How had she forgotten how much she loved the holidays here?
The tree lighting in downtown Hope Springs. The home tours in Fredericksburg. Pecan pies and cornbread dressing and wood smoke in the air unencumbered by the weight of damp snow. She brushed away the melancholia tightening her chest and nodded toward the cat. “Is this your Tabby Danger?”
Cary shook his head. “This is Flirty. So named because she’s an incorrigible flirt. Just don’t try to pet her or it’ll be days before she shows herself again.”
“Got it.” Cilla lifted her gaze from Flirty to Cary. “Flirty, huh. Did you name her?”
He laughed, the skin over his cheekbones pink with cold. “No, we’ve got a semiferal colony that roams the neighborhood. I’m not sure which of the kids named this one.”
“Her clipped ear is adorable. Cute fashion statement.”
“Yeah, the vet who does the spays and neuters doesn’t mangle them. This way the kids think it’s cool. Like a piercing. Or a tattoo.”
“Body art for cats.”
“Something like that,” he said, falling silent again.
Silence wasn’t going to settle whatever this was between them. And she needed it settled. Adding another plate to her current juggling act would send everything crashing down. Maybe she could reach him by talking about his art and his work. It was a place to start anyway. “Was there another tabby who inspired you?”
He said nothing, shrugging instead, which gave her her answer.
“Tell me about her.”
“It’s dumb.”
“Tell me.”
He stretched out his legs, crossing his ankles, and leaning back onto his elbows braced on the porch. The move sent Flirty scurrying, stirring up fallen leaves as she dashed halfway across the fenced yard. Only then did she turn and look back.
And only then did Cary start talking. “My parents kicked me out after I got expelled. I had a little bit of money saved up. I’d washed dishes at Malina’s for a couple of years. So, I moved to Austin. Got a couple of part-time jobs. Found a room in a boarding house. Shared bathroom. A microwave, hot plate, and dorm-fridge in the room. All a high school dropout with no prospects needed.”
His reaction to her kiss still fresh, she kept her distance instead of reaching out. The picture he painted, being eighteen and struggling and alone... Sadness enveloped her. Her eyes misted. Her chest ached as if she’d been struck by a fist.
She couldn’t keep her voice from breaking. “Don’t say that.”
“It’s no big deal, Cilla. And it was how I felt at the time.”
“Still. I hate thinking of you like that, having no one—”
He cut her off with a sharp laugh. “When did I ever have anyone? My parents did next to nothing. Signed papers when I needed them signed. Sent me to the thrift store for school clothes when I outgrew what I had. I bought sandwich stuff and packed my own lunches. And don’t say I had you because we both know that’s not true.”
He sat forward again, his elbows on his knees. “Instead of going to school, I went to work. I already knew how to fend for myself. Food. Laundry. The first months were tough, but I made a few friends. We helped each other out. I was never homeless or hungry. I was better off than a lot of people.”
Her fingers trembling, she clasped her hands, squeezing away the weakness and cold and waited for his outburst to settle, realizing how unaware she’d been of how he’d lived, what he’d gone through in this house. What he’d suffered.
But Cary she knew.
What he was capable of. Who he was as a human being. Most of all she knew his heart. His singular act of saving her reputation, of keeping her secret, caring enough about her to pick up her razor blade...
For her. A girl who wasn’t even a friend.
She closed her eyes, opened them, wishing away her fluttering pulse and the emotion it stirred in her blood. Emotion she couldn’t blame on impending motherhood or hormones or anything but what it was: Cary.
“Tell me about Tabby.”
He took a deep breath then blew it out slowly as if he, too, needed to get rid of what he was feeling along with the air. “One of my jobs was in a pizza kitchen. Just a takeaway place, not a restaurant. It was in a strip mall. Nail salon. Payday loan joint. Dry cleaner. There was a tattoo parlor next door. I drew some of the designs they sold.”
“They paid you for them?”
“I mostly did it because the drawing grounded me. It always has,�
� he said and rubbed at an ink stain on his thumb. “They’d toss me a tip when someone chose one. They were pretty intricate so it made for a big investment in time and good money for the artist.” He chuckled to himself. “That was the first money I made from my art.”
“And that’s where Tabby Danger lived? The tattoo parlor?” Cilla asked. She wanted to turn back time and make better choices so she could live her life differently and be there in Austin with Cary. It made no sense. They weren’t even the same people now as then. What they’d both gone through, growing up, leaving home, surviving...
“Not lived, no,” he said, shaking his head, “but that’s where I found her. I was in the alley behind the kitchen on break one night. One of the artists from next door was out there, too, smoking. We got to talking and heard this noise. It was a kitten inside a discarded tire. We’d only taken a couple steps when the mother appeared through a hole in the fence with another. We didn’t move. We didn’t want to scare her. We both needed to get back to work but we waited. She disappeared and came back like five or six minutes later with a third. After doing that a couple more times, she stopped.”
Cilla could so clearly visualize the picture he painted, not only of the cat but of a young, concerned Cary. “You stayed the entire time?”
He nodded. “It was a slow night. I popped my head in once in a while, but the other guys were usually on their phones. Same with Vic.”
“Vic?”
“Victoria. The tattoo artist. She didn’t have much going on either. Anyway,” he said, gesturing randomly, “there were five kittens in all. Newborns. Eyes still closed and everything. We didn’t want to scare her, but it was cold and wet out so we got a plastic crate from the kitchen. One of those with the two-panel hinged lid,” he said, mimicking the motion with his hands. “We turned it on its side and lined it with newspaper then covered that with towels from Vic’s shop. We set it as close to the tire as we could without frightening her and put some food and water inside.
“The rest of the night, one of us would check on them and text the other. I got off work at midnight after clean-up. Vic went home around two, but I stayed till morning. I don’t know why,” he said with a shrug, almost apologetically. “I guess I just needed to see that she was safe. The cat. She was an orange tabby. Finally, she moved her family into the crate. I crept up behind to close the open panel and took her to a friend who worked with a rescue group. And that was it. Nothing exciting.”
“It doesn’t sound like nothing to me. It sounds like everything. You saw a need. You didn’t walk away. You took responsibility when you didn’t have to.” She thought back to high school, to that day in the hallway when Cary had seen her need, taken on her responsibility, rescued her. Her voice was unsteady and husky with emotion when she said, “I love that you took care of her. Your Tabby Danger.”
He didn’t respond right away, obviously lost in thought. And when he finally spoke, he gave a little shake of his head as if surprised by the weight of the memory. “It was just the way she took care of those kittens. Looking around each time she came through the fence. Making sure the coast was clear and tucking the new one close to the others. Somehow, she must’ve known they wouldn’t be able to get out of that tire while she was gone. And she waited a long time to move them into the crate.”
He paused, watching Flirty run at the back fence and scale the boards as if they were nothing. “After that, she sat on top of it. Then crouched on top of it. She finally jumped down to the open flap and stood in front of the entrance, guarding them. Watching out for them. It took her a long time to relax enough to go inside.”
Cilla shivered and wrapped her cardigan tighter. “She was protecting them. From danger.”
“Yeah,” Cary said and chuckled. “I pictured her in a fedora and a trench coat. Some cheesy Pink Panther music playing. And the rest, as they say, is history.”
“I love that. It’s so sweet.”
“No. It’s dumb.” He scratched at his temple, ran his hand back through his hair, and laughed again. “Like I said.”
It wasn’t dumb at all, but she let it go. “Did you get a tattoo?”
“Eventually.”
“Can I see it?”
“Maybe sometime,” he said and got to his feet.
“No way,” she said, taking his hand when he held it out to pull her to hers. “You can’t leave me with that. At least tell me what it is.”
“Maybe sometime,” he said again, and when he smiled, she knew they were going to be okay.
Chapter Seven
CILLA WENT TO BED THINKING of Cary, of his hands and of his heart. The way he’d rubbed at the ink stain on his thumb. The lengths he’d gone to to rescue the cat who had saved him. How he had saved her so many years ago... something she was only now in a place to understand. His kindnesses had changed everything for them both.
He had paid a huge personal price because of her.
She had done nothing for him. The truth ate at her.
Turning from her back to her side, she plumped her pillow then stared at the strip of light shining under the door. It wasn’t enough to see by, just enough to use to make her way out of the room—which she was going to need to do soon. Again. Her bladder would never be the same. She was so ready for her daughter to be born.
She thought about Cary lying in this bed as a child, seeing the same light. Was this the mattress he’d slept on? Was this the bedspread he’d used? Learning what she had about his life here, she couldn’t imagine his parents replacing either after he left. And he didn’t use the room so there’d been no reason to make the change when he’d returned.
She was surprised he hadn’t gutted the room to get rid of the memories. As desperate as she’d been to escape, it would’ve been the first thing she’d done—except that wasn’t true, was it? She would’ve lived in a homeless shelter before returning to her family’s home—though her parents had moved to Las Vegas and sold it years ago. But that was her.
And she was coming to realize how differently she and Cary had dealt with their very similar damage.
She was the one who’d pushed her past from her mind when leaving home, who hadn’t learned anything from those early years, who’d lived up to the hoary cliché and chosen a man like her father—though at least she hadn’t married him.
Oh, they’d made plans. The wedding. The reception. The honeymoon. The renovated Brooklyn brownstone where they would raise their family. Down the road. When it was time. But not now. Her pregnancy had been a thoughtless inconvenience.
Her fault, of course. Ken wasn’t ready and really, the more he thought about it? He wasn’t sure he wanted kids. Their life was too perfect. They could pick up and go anywhere on a whim. They didn’t have to haul kids with them or arrange for childcare. They didn’t even have to arrange care for pets. Life was so much easier without.
Cilla had to give it to him. He knew what he wanted. A selfish life. His life lived his way, shared with no one who didn’t want to come along for his ride. He’d swept her off her feet. He’d whisked her away. And she’d let him. Forgetting her craft-shop dream because he’d promised her the world. Not until the newness and excitement been replaced by the day-to-day had she been forced to admit she’d made a mistake.
The laughter she’d so loved was the same she’d lived with at home.
Laughter fueled by excessive alcohol over things not the least bit funny.
That wasn’t the life she wanted. For herself. For her child. What she wanted was, well, everything that Cary offered. His decency. His awareness. His presence in the moment. He was smart and capable, good and kind. When he made her laugh, it was authentic. Cary was true. And real. And until seeing him again, she hadn’t been aware of how closely tucked to her heart she’d kept his memory. The thought had her hugging the spare pillow, trembling with a flood of rich and unexpected emotion.
She thought about his hands again, having him find her scars. She thought about his heart again, how he’d put her f
irst when he’d picked up her razor. How, when two teachers had seen him with it, he hadn’t argued that it wasn’t his, or denied being in possession of a weapon on campus. He’d accepted his fate. He’d been punished for her crimes. And she hadn’t said a word, too ashamed of being discovered.
What in the world was wrong with her? Why had she let all these years pass without making things right? She wasn’t any better than her ex, living her own selfish life. Making no attempt after Cary’s expulsion to check on him, to talk to him.
To thank him.
Throwing back the covers, she eased her legs over the side of the bed and levered her body up. It was probably hormones, but she needed to see him. To apologize. To dig up the past they’d been skirting around and flay it open for the autopsy it deserved.
Only then could they bury it properly and move on, understanding.
Definitely hormones, she mused. And ridiculously dramatic ones at that.
The stairs creaked as she descended. If he hadn’t still been awake, no doubt he was now, what with the toilet flushing, the water running, and the old wood having its say.
Still, she hesitated before she knocked on his door, her stomach a mess of nerves. This was what she wanted. It didn’t make it less hard. Or stop her hands from shaking.
“Cary?” She spoke softly, twining her fingers together.
“Yeah?” His response was immediate.
“Do you mind if I come in? Just for a minute?”
“Sure,” he said, reaching for the lamp on his bedside table as she opened the door. He wore a white T-shirt. His stubble shadowed his cheeks. His hair fell in disheveled chunks and her fingers itched to comb through it, to smooth it, to mess it up again.
“No.” She waved a hand before he pulled the chain. “Leave it off. There’s enough light coming in through the window.”
“What’s going on?” He rolled up to sit. “You okay? The baby?”
“I’m fine. The baby’s fine.” She crossed the room and perched on the edge of his bed, leaning more than sitting, not sure where to begin. In the end, she rushed out with something else she’d been thinking about. “Could we get a Christmas tree tomorrow?”
