With Brynnand Madison hauling me off to Chicago as often as they humanly can, I barely have time to throw myself a proper pity party. Though I suspect they know that. The week goes by faster than I expect it to, thanks to them, and when I finally pry myself away from their apartment on Thursday night, they only let me go before ten pm because I tell them I have to spend half my weekend locked in an abandoned insane asylum two hours away.
Not that it’s alie,I think to myself as I pull into my driveway and turn off the engine. Like always, my porch light is on, and I huff out a sigh as I lean back in my seat. My head hasn’t stopped hurting all week, though the migraine has finally subsided into a dull, frustrating ache. I’m still convinced it’s partially because of my sore, tight neck muscles, however, and my fingers come up to press against the knots that seem to build whenever my stress gets worse.
Well, there’s nothing to do about it now.
For the first time, my house seems lonely as I walk up to it. The light being on just how I left it only serves to remind me that it’s quiet inside, without a soul waiting for me, save Mrs. Elmoreacross the street. And even the light on inside that’s illuminating my porch through the glass panel beside my door?—
I stop, my fingers inches from the handle on my front door, and my eyes narrow in confusion. Ineverleave my living room light on. Sometimes I flip on the one over my kitchen sink, but I wouldn’t be able to see that through the glass. My hand hovers in the air, my keys dangling from my fingers. Iknowthis can’t be right, but when I press down on the handle, my door is just as locked as it should be.
Had I actually gone and left it on? No matter how much I scan my brain, I can’t remember doing so when I left the house earlier today. But I’d been on the phone, apologizing to Brynn for leaving late, so I suppose…
Well, it’s not impossible. I was in a rush, and I'm unfortunately not infallible. If someone had broken in, surely my door wouldn’t still be locked, unless they came in through a window or the back door.
“Fuck it,” I whisper. This is getting me nowhere, but panic continues to fuel the anxiety in my chest. Fumbling with my keys, I manage to unlock my door and step inside. Nothing jumps out at me. Not only that, but there’s no damage, nothing overturned, and nothing seems to have been stolen. Everything is in its place, from what I can see.
Then a soft noise breaks the silence, and for a second, I’m sure it’s the creaking of the door as I close it behind me. But then it comes again, and I register it as sounding like a…cat?
I don’t have a cat unless the feline distribution system has seen fit to bless me with one. But I follow the noise until I’m standing in my kitchen and looking down at the floor where a pile of products that I certainly didn’t buy sits behind a plastic cat carrier.
A heavy envelope with my full name—Persephone Gallows—in blocky handwriting sits on the top. Confused and more thana little nervous, I sit down on my floor to grab the letter, though my eyes immediately go to the carrier when the sound comes again.
A cat stares back at me. In the darkness of the carrier, all I can see is a white nose and wide, green eyes set in a partially dark face. As much as I want to let the cat out, however, I still have way too many questions to do so.
As far as I know, this isn’t really how the feline distribution system normally works. From what I can see, the pile has all the supplies I could possibly need for a cat, and all of them are brand new, except for a cushioned bed that looks pretty well worn in.
“Okay, so, this is the weirdest thing to ever happen to me,” I murmur, and open the envelope to pull out the handwritten letter on notebook paper.
Persy-
Meet Arugula. He’s my cat, who I rescued last Halloween from the shelter. He came from a not-great situation, but don’t worry, they won’t be owning pets ever again. Anyway, I haven’t been able to give him the attention he needs. My dad has needed my help with work a lot lately, meaning I’m not at home much. Arugula hates other cats, so my parents’ house isn’t really an option, and he needs someone he can glue himself to.
That’s where you come in. I may not know you that well, but you seem like you could really use a friend. Especially one that loves to snuggle. He’d love for you to wrap around him instead of that red pillow you drool all over when you sleep.
Anyway, everything you need is here. He’s two years old, and doesn’t have any health problems. You can just set his food out and refill it when it’s empty. Don’t be too generous with the treats, last time the vet told me he’s fat and it’s not like he does much to work off the extra weight.
See you soon.
Your favorite Stalker
I need to read the letter twice to really let the words sink in, though my first response is to be offended at the accusation Idroolon my pillow. I finally open the front of the carrier, and Arugula takes a few moments to assess his options before stepping out and giving a big stretch.
“You certainly are a cat of grand size, aren’t you?” I murmur, one hand going out for the cat to sniff. He touches his nose to my fingers, as if to assess my worthiness, before rubbing his mouth along my wrist. I can only assume he’s marking me as worthy, because a moment later, Arugula walks right into my lap and leans up to brace on my chest, his green eyes wide as he surveys my face.
I shouldn’t already be in love with my stalker’s cat. He is gorgeous, though, no matter who he belongs to. With long fur and a bottle-brush tail that he waves back and forth, he has a very noble look about him. In a way, Arugula looks like he was dipped in white paint, I think with a grin. Every bit of fur on his belly and legs is white, but his face is both white and black, like someone put a superhero mask on him and a cap over his ears.
A touch to his white nose proves it’s just as soft as it looks, and his long whiskers twitch at the movement. Surprisingly, though I thought his back was black at first, as I pet him I realize it’s a dark, red-brown color that continues up his fluffy tail. He’s adorable, and unique-looking, and clearly perfect in every way.
Really, already swooning for my stalker’s cat feels all kinds of wrong, and I’m sure Madison would give me every lecture in the book about this.
But how can I do anything but want to cuddle him forever when he lets out a low, rumbling purr and rubs his face along my jaw? I’ve just met Arugula, but I would definitely kill a man for him without question.
“You aren’t a reflection of your owner’s mental problems, are you?” I coo, though really, I’m not one to be questioning anyone’s mental state. “Aren’t you just so adorable?” God, there was never any chance of me putting Arugula back in his carrier and taking him outside to await my stalker’s return.
That would be cruel of me, first of all.
Carefully, I put him on the floor, prompting the cat to march off in what appears to be an investigation of his new digs. While he does that, I set up the litter box by the patio door, then it takes a few tries to decide where I want to put his food and water. Eventually, I decide to put them on the wall behind the couch. There’s a perfect little nook beside the sideboard, and this way I can put the bag of cat food in the bottom of the piece of furniture that I got for cheap at a thrift store.
It takes a few minutes for me to assemble the cat fountain out of the box, but when I have it set up and the water is bubbling like it’s coming out of a sink and into a bowl, Arugula immediately trots himself over and sticks his face under the stream.
