Vincent Cooper
PRESENT (2023)
"If you play acoustic guitar you're
the depressed, sensitive guy."
Elliott Smith
––––––––
It’s four in the morning when I drag myself to the front door, because someone won’t stop ringing the doorbell.
Maybe something happened with Maggie, and Sam came home earlier than expected.
But when I open the door, I have to rub my eyes, convinced I must still be dreaming. Because there she is—Nova—standing on my doorstep, drenched from head to toe, clutching a tiny kitten against her chest, and a crumpled 7-Eleven bag rests at her feet.
“Nova? What—”
“I went back to the alley after work and got it,” she murmurs, staring down at her shoes. Her voice’s small, hesitant. “Sorry I came here. I—I didn’t want to bother Maggie tonight. She cameback late and she was tired, and I didn’t know where to go or what to do, I—”
“Come here.”
I pull her straight into my arms, not caring that her soaked clothes cling to my pajama shirt. The kitten lets out a squeaky meow between us, and I shift so I don’t crush the little thing.
“It’s a girl. I named her Roxy... like the cafè,” Nova says in a rush. “I think she was born just a few days ago. Her mother must have abandoned her. I went to 7-Eleven and bought her tuna, some cans of cat food, kibble, but then I realized she’s too young. So I ran to the 24-hour pharmacy and bought pet milk and a baby bottle.”
Her voice is quick, nervous, trembling. I press a kiss to her cold nose, trying to calm her. “Come inside.”
I take the bag from her, shut the door, and guide her into my room. She sits stiffly on my unmade bed, Roxy still in her arms, while I drop the bag on my desk.
Only then do I notice the mess. Clothes strewn everywhere, crumpled sheet music, empty Cherry Coke cans sticking out of the trash. If Sam didn’t come by to clean three times a week, the place would be a disaster zone.
“I didn’t think anyone would ever come into my room except Sam. Sorry for the dis—”
“You still have the ukulele I gave you,” Nova interrupts softly, noticing the instrument lying at the foot of my bed beside my guitar.
Her words catch me off guard. “Oh... I-I... yeah.”
“Do you still play it?”
“Yes.” My throat feels tight.
Aside from the acoustic guitar, it’s the only instrument I bring both to my parents’ house and here, because I don’t have two of them.
She gives me the smallest smile before lowering her gaze to the kitten. Roxy’s tiny, her reddish fur soaked, her body too thin. Nova’s shivering, and I realize she’s still dripping rainwater everywhere.
“Do you want to take a shower?” I ask, already heading to the closet.
“Huh?”
“You’re freezing. A hot shower might help.”
“Are you sure? I don’t want—”
I don’t let her finish. I hold out a clean T-shirt, a pair of sweatpants, and some boxers. “Here.”
She strokes Roxy’s fur absentmindedly, making the kitten purr, but finally nods.
