by Theresa Weir
“Stay,” she said. “We can have breakfast together.”
“Really?” He spoke the word with a kind of baffled amazement.
She laughed at the realization of how messed up they both were, and how cautious they both were. “Really.”
“Okay then.”
The clothes came off and the bed dipped with the combined weight of their tangled bodies as they discovered each other all over again. When morning came they woke to sunlight cutting around curtains and splashing across the wooden floor. Lola’s head was against Emerson’s chest, his arms around her. At the foot of the bed, Sam the cat was sprawled out in a narrow strip of sunlight, purring and licking his paws.
Lola and Emerson showered together and then they ate breakfast at the center counter in the small kitchen while Sam lounged on the deck. Breakfast was just toast and an orange because that’s all Lola had in the house.
At one point Emerson pulled her to his lap and kissed her and fed her peeled orange slices while her long wet hair tangled around his wrist. When he started to unwrap the strands of hair she stopped him because she wanted to soak in the image.
“Don’t move,” she said.
Her phone was on the counter and she took a photo of her hair against the white skin of his wrist, then she showed it to him. He smiled, and god, he had the most angelic smile.
He set the phone aside. With his wrist still entangled, he cupped her face in both of his hands and he kissed her in a way that seemed like a sweet promise of something more. Of maybe a tomorrow and the next day.
“Are you playing in the park today?” he asked.
She thought about that, realizing the only reason she’d originally continued to play there was because of his notes. She played for his notes. But now…people expected her and they waited for her. “Yeah, I think I will. And then I have a shift at Mean Waitress tonight. Are you going to work?”
“I close today.”
She wondered if he’d bring her a note, or had the notes served their purpose?
She hoped he kept writing them.
They reluctantly left the apartment to head for their cars, but not before shared looks of longing and the soft brushing of fingers against fingers.
Lola couldn’t leave until Emerson was out of sight, because she wanted to watch him as long as possible. In his hand he carried the now-empty drum case, and on his shoulder was the cat named Sam.
When Emerson reached his car, he opened the driver’s door, bent forward, and Sam jumped inside. Emerson followed, and then the little green car pulled away.
Lola let out a deep sigh and headed for her own vehicle. The pain was still there, that indescribable pain, but now it was combined with something else, the gnawing worry that came with knowing something was just too perfect.
* * *
He came to the rose garden that very day.
She saw him from a distance, easily spotting his dark curly hair, his jean jacket, but she would have known him by the way he carried himself, with a kind of loose and lanky walk. She pretended not to see him, the way she always pretended not to see him, because that was part of the game and part of the romance.
Her regulars knew him, and, just like her, they waited for the scene to play out because everybody loved the innocent romance performed on a daily basis right before their eyes.
He approached her from the side, and, like always, he dropped his note into her case, and, like always, he picked up the red envelope with his name on it, but this time he also dropped an orange in the case before turning on his heel to stride away.
The bow against the string let out a squawk, but she corrected and got herself under control.
When her set was done, she packed up her violin and tucked the note into her pocket. She wouldn’t read it there, not where people were watching with expectation. She felt bad about that, but she wanted to absorb it in solitude.
She found a place far from the fountain, a spot in the shade of an oak tree where she could see the sunlight sparkling off the lake.
She opened the envelope.
Inside was a Polaroid of the Minnehaha bunny—a huge bronze rabbit sculpture near Minnehaha Creek. Under the photo were the words meet me. Next to that, a time and date. Tomorrow evening.
Sam and Emerson
Chapter 14
Even though I come from a family of matchmaking cats, I’ve always scoffed at it. I mean, who gives a rip about love? Food and shelter, that’s all I ever really cared about. But now I can detect a shift in my thinking, a shift that kicked in when I met Emerson.
Good job. That’s what I’m telling myself. Because those two…they were both glowing this morning at Lola’s house. And right now Emerson is back from work and he’s pulling out that familiar red envelope that tells me he went to the rose garden on his lunch break.
I watch as he reads the note, which I’m sure he’s already read a million times because it’s got that look about it. Kind of soft and uncrisp.
He’s standing in the dining room, leaning against the wall as he reads, feet crossed at the ankles. I watch his eyes as they move back-and-forth, and when he comes to the end he stares at the paper for a long time, folds it, smiles, and closes his eyes, head back.
My boy’s in love.
I’ve always thought love was silly. Such a silly human emotion. Such nonsense. What does it get you? Mice? Cat toys? Tuna? No. So what’s the point? Love, what is it good for? Absolutely nothing.
Maybe it’s Emerson, but I’m getting soft in my cat years. And the thing is…I think I’m a bit in love myself. With Emerson. Not in a gay way, but a bro kind of way. A family kind of way. Kind of the way I feel when I think of my siblings. And speaking of siblings… The cat smell in Lola’s house… Cripes, that was so familiar. I know it seems crazy, because how could something be that much of a coincidence, but I swear to god the place smelled like family…
* * *
Did guys swoon? Because Emerson sure felt weird. His legs were weak, and his arms were weak, and he just wanted to slide down the wall to the floor. Which he did. Legs stretched straight out, Lola’s note clutched in his hand.
Sam meowed and crawled onto his lap, nudging his way under Emerson’s arm and finally his hand. Hands were for petting, so Emerson got busy, scratching under Sam’s neck, then the spot in front of his tail.
Behind and over his shoulder, the front door opened and Chris blasted inside like a storm. “Hey, guys.” Straight to the kitchen. Open the refrigerator, beer bottles clanging. Return carrying two open beers, handing one to Emerson.
“Thanks,” Emerson said. “Rough day?”
“Classes are kicking my butt.” Chris shook his head. “And I’ve got a paper due tomorrow that I forgot about. Twelve pages, so I’ll probably pull an all-nighter. But the good news? I’m having a party tomorrow. And that tattoo artist I told you about? He’s going to be here. So, if you want a tattoo…”
Emerson couldn’t really think about anything but Lola. And yet he knew getting her name tattooed on him would probably be considered too soon and too creepy this early in the relationship.
Emerson shook his head. “I’ll think about it,” he said while continuing to pet Sam.
Michael
Chapter 15
“Oh, my god. Is that George?”
Michael Faver stared in horror at the flyer stapled to the telephone pole. He and his girlfriend had just left the Steak House. He was a little drunk, and he was anxious to get back to his place for an evening of sex. A stupid cat was the last thing he wanted to think about. “That’s not him.”
“I think it is,” Valerie insisted. “And this is pretty close to your house. When did he run away?”
“I don’t know… Three weeks ago, maybe.”
“This cat was found just over three weeks ago near the Delphinium bar. That’s really close to your house.” She pulled out he
r cell phone.
“What are you doing?”
“Calling the number, what do you think?”
“Don’t let it ruin our night.” He ripped the flyer from the pole and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. “I’ll call tomorrow, but I really don’t think it’s him.”
“I think it is. And you were saying how much you missed him when he ran off. Give me the flyer.” She held out her hand, and Michael could see he wasn’t going to win this. With reluctance, he pulled the flyer from his pocket. “I’ll call,” he said.
“I already started entering the number. What are the last four digits?”
He read them to her.
That cat. That fucking cat. He’d gotten it because he’d been told chicks were attracted to guys who had pets, and he sure as hell hadn’t wanted a dog that needed to be walked, so he’d opted for a cat. Any damn cat.
After he tossed him out, he’d at least gotten off the kick of thinking that the cat was possessed or something. That was crazy, but he hadn’t liked the damn thing. He’d hated it, in fact.
But Valerie had loved it, and that had bugged him too. She’d actually cried when she found out it was gone. But in the end he’d gotten sympathy sex that had been some of the best ever, all because she was sure he was heartbroken over the “loss” of George.
She was talking to somebody, and now she grabbed a pen and paper from her purse, telling him to turn so she could use his back as support. She ended the call and when Michael spun around she was looking at him with a smile of satisfaction. “He’s less than a mile from here, on Colfax.”
“You want to go see if it’s him? Right now?”
“The owner said he’d be there all night.”
The evening was unraveling in a way Michael hadn’t anticipated. But then again, if the loss of George got him such good sex, maybe the return of George could get him even better sex.
The address turned out to be a duplex, and the young guy who answered the door was kind of a hippie geek, dressed in jeans and a plaid shirt.
As soon as Valerie saw the cat she let out a squeal and ran, picked him up, and cuddled him to her chest. “It’s him! It’s George!”
“I don’t know…” Michael began, even though he knew damn well it was that stupid cat he’d hoped to never see again.
“Look, same black mark on his front paw! And the pads of his feet are black, but his fur is white. It’s him! I know it’s him.”
Michael stared at the cat. If he said it wasn’t George, she’d never believe him. She’d never fall for it, and he’d end up alienating her. All over a damn cat. “I think you’re right,” he said, pretending to examine the face and markings. He could always dispose of the animal later. “Yeah, it’s George all right.”
Valerie was out of her mind with joy.
Yay, bedroom.
“What do we owe you for finding and taking care of him?” Michael asked the guy who was standing in the middle of the living room, hands in the front pockets of his jeans. His expression was kind of hard for Michael to read since he couldn’t read anybody, but it seemed like the guy was in shock. Maybe he was shocked because he’d never expected to unload him after all this time. Yeah, that was probably it.
“You don’t have to pay me anything,” the guy said. “Wait just a minute and I’ll grab his toys.”
“We don’t need any of that.” Michael wanted to get out of there. He wanted the happy sex. “Thanks for taking care of him.”
Valerie was beaming and snuggling her face against the cat’s fur. “I can’t believe it! George!”
Together they hurried out to the white SUV, Valerie cuddling the cat as Michael slammed the passenger door behind them and took his seat behind the steering wheel. Goddamn cat.
* * *
Emerson stood on the porch and watched the taillights fade down the dark street. It had all happened so fast. He hadn’t even gotten the guy’s name. And he hadn’t even asked for proof that the cat belonged to him. Oh, had to be his. Nobody would just come over and pick up a cat, would they?
Regardless, Emerson ran to the street, hopped in his car, and caught up with the SUV at a nearby red light. He followed them to an upscale condo complex that wasn’t far from the bar where he’d found Sam, or rather where Sam had found him.
Emerson hung back, parking when they parked, but keeping his distance. From his car, he watched as they got out with Sam and walked to the front door of the complex, the girl hugging the cat the whole way.
It was legit.
Holy crap.
With both hands, Emerson raked the hair back from his forehead. Holy crap.
Emerson
Chapter 16
“You should just get another cat.”
Emerson’s roommate stood in the bedroom doorway, a cup of coffee in his hand. “Just go to the shelter and get one. I’ll bet they have a lot of cute kittens there. Kittens are cool.”
Emerson tugged the covers over his shoulder. “I don’t want another cat.”
“Give it a couple weeks, then I say we go cat shopping. Here—” Chris put his half-finished coffee on the bedside table. “You can have this.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Don’t forget the tattoo party tonight.”
Emerson groaned, wrapped his pillow around his head, and rolled so he was facing the wall. Five minutes later he heard the door slam, then heard Chris’ car pulling away.
He had to get up. Had to be at work in an hour, and there was Lola and the rose garden. Then he remembered their date for the evening. The picnic at the rabbit sculpture. He’d planned to buy a bottle of wine and strawberries and chocolate and crackers and cheese. But now, with Sam gone, it didn’t seem like the time for something as light-hearted as a picnic.
Lola was the first person he’d thought of calling after Sam’s owners had claimed him, but he’d been too choked up to contact her, and later he thought maybe he was losing his mind. Crying over a cat he’d only had a few weeks.
He picked up the notebook he kept next to the bed. He was poised to write Lola his morning note, planning to tell her about Sam, but he couldn’t do it. It didn’t seem like the kind of thing you should tell somebody in a note. No, he’d tell her when he saw her tonight.
He went to work, and when Abe showed up and asked about Sam all Emerson could do was wave a hand in the air.
“He flew away?”
Always the smartass.
Irritated out of his grief, Emerson strode around the shop, snatching up the remaining flyers with the pictures of Sam. He tossed them in the trash. Behind him, Abe was hovering, now with a look of concern, the fingers of both hands cupped and almost touching as he stood hunched and waiting for some explanation. He looked a little like Mr. Burns.
“The owners called last night,” Emerson finally said.
Abe lit up a little, then adjusted his gray stocking cap. “That’s good, right?”
Emerson nodded.
“That’s what you want. You want to find the owners.”
“I don’t know.” Emerson dropped down on the metal stool behind the cash register, elbow on the counter, palm to forehead. “I didn’t like the guy. The owner. I mean, he just wasn’t cool. He wasn’t the kind of owner I thought Sam would have. He was some slick business guy.”
“That doesn’t make him bad. He probably loves that cat. Maybe more than you.”
“Yeah. Maybe.” Emerson thought a while. “I don’t know. It didn’t feel right.” He thought some more. “But the guy’s wife or girlfriend was crazy about Sam.”
“There ya go. Happy ending.”
“And they called him George. What the hell kind of cat name is George? He’s not a George.”
Emerson imagined going to the guy’s place and offering to buy Sam back. With what? He usually traded services, but the businessman didn’t seem li
ke the type who’d need new tubes in his vintage amp, and Emerson had spent all of his money on supplies for the violin he was making for Lola.
So steal him.
Yeah, maybe he could steal Sam back.
Jesus, he couldn’t believe he was thinking such a thing, but that’s just how desperate he was. And now he imagined himself dressed in black, somehow scaling the wall (had there been a wall to scale?) and doing all this super-spy, high-risk stuff—for a cat.
He glanced up at the large wall clock. “Oh, shit.” It was after 1:00, and Lola usually packed up at 1:00. He’d missed the rose garden visit.
“It’s not like he died,” Abe said. “He’s alive and probably living on caviar right now. Served in fine china.”
* * *
“Goddamn cat.” Michael grabbed a handful of paper towels and pressed them to his bleeding forearms.
The cat had attacked him for no reason. You were supposed to pick up cats by the scruff of the neck. And now the damn thing was on top of the refrigerator, pupils dilated, ears back, tail huge as it growled deep in its throat.
“I don’t care what Valerie says or wants, you have to go.”
He pulled out his cell phone, told Siri to find the number of the nearest animal shelter, then let the call go through. When a woman answered, Michael explained the situation. “I have a cat that’s out-of-control. It’s feral and I doubt it can ever be domesticated. It just attacked me with no reason, and I think it needs to be put down.”
“We typically keep animals two weeks before euthanasia,” the woman said. “But in some cases we make exceptions if we see the animal will never be able to share a home with people. And our shelter is at capacity. We’re actually turning people away right now.”
“Come and get this cat and I’ll make a nice donation. And when you come be sure to bring one of those long poles with the neck loop on it, otherwise you’ll never catch it.”
