Dad’s lips formed a thin line, a telltale sign that this was not good. In this case it meant there was a litter of kittens now on their own.
“I didn’t tell the man that,” I admitted. “He was distraught enough.”
“You didn’t know who he was?”
I would have said if I did.
“No.”
Dad inhaled deeply and let out a sigh. His smile was not his happy one. “You did the right thing. I’m sorry I wasn’t there tonight to help you with that.”
I shrugged as I swallowed another mouthful. “It’s fine.”
Mom gave my shoulder a quick squeeze. “Well, there are some mini apple pies from the diner. I can heat one for you if you like?”
I put my fork down. “No, thank you. It’s not necessary.” They were both looking at me as if they expected me to say something else. “Mrs. Gilbert is bringing her Pomeranian in tomorrow at nine. She said he’s not himself, which is probably directly related to how many treats she gives him.”
Dad nodded, and this time his smile made his eyes shine. “There’s a good chance. I’ll remind her again that one treat a day is enough.”
We sat there for a long few seconds.
My parents were very outwardly caring and loving people, and I knew they tailored their concern for me with gestures of service and kindness. I loved them very much, but I wasn’t good at small talk.
In fact, small talk made me uncomfortable. I wasn’t any good at it, and I didn’t like how people looked at me waiting for my input.
I stood up and put my plate straight into the dishwasher and made myself hold eye contact with Mom. “Thank you for dinner.”
She grinned. “You’re welcome, love.”
“I’ll go shower now.”
Dad poured himself a glass of milk. “Our show starts at seven. Don’t forget.”
How could I forget something we did every single night? Regardless, I nodded, happier now. “Okay.”
I went to my room and closed the door, feeling immediately at ease. The relief of it, I felt in my bones. It was quiet, and it smelled right. My single bed in the corner with the blue covers was perfectly made, just as I’d left it this morning. My notebooks and pens sat on my desk, exactly as I’d put them; not a thing out of place. As I knew it would be, but I still liked to see it.
I showered quickly in my bathroom and wore my winter pajamas when I redressed, hanging my towel neatly on the rack to dry.
And as I sat on my bed to put my slippers on, my eyes went to my bookcase. Neat rows of my favorites, the ones I’d first read from the library but needed to buy, to have for my very own.
To one book in particular.
I slid it out of its row. Its red cover with the white circle and the black lines of legs that look like trees.
Norwegian Woodby Haruki Murakami.
This book, this perfect book. Words that stayed with me long after I’d finished it. Words that resonated with me. That plucked a string inside me.
I’ve read a lot of books. Fiction, non-fiction, and textbooks, of course.
Manga and yaoi. I’d found those when I’d gone to college... I didn’t own any physical copies though, only digital.
I loved all books. Some more than others.
But I’d readNorwegian Woodmore times than I could count, and it resonated with me even more, every time.
I’d quoted this book today to the distraught man who’d brought the cat into the clinic.
