Chapter Forty-Seven
Lot
The name standoff.
Queenie’s face-deep in a tub of catnip, her back leg twitching like she just found the mother lode. Dreya calls it “exploring her sensory world.” I call it “getting high on my dime.”
The play center smells faintly of Lysol and kibble. Bright tunnels snake across the floor and miniature hammocks sway from hooks like a feline beach resort.
An orange tabby hops onto the perch beside Queenie, sniffs her ear in friendly greeting. Queenie snarls and smacks the tabby clean off the platform.
“Gingerbear!” the cat mama gasps, scooping up her baby and glaring at me like I brought a thug to the playdate.
Dreya slides in with her best peacekeeper smile. “Sometimes dominance displays are just part of the socialization process.”
“Sorry,” I apologize to the woman cradling Gingerbear, and pickup Queenie, muttering, “You’d think you shoved her kid off the monkey bars.”
“Meow.”
I side-eye my little bully. “Yeah, she was over the top, but you still can’t go around bitch-slapping cats for saying hi.”
She just flicks her tail, zero shame or remorse, inspiring a thug life design for the new T-shirt collection. I carry her off and fish a toy from a pail, dangling the feathery bird to keep her out of trouble.
Nearby, a man and his daughter, I’d guess to be around five, are coaxing a kitten through a tunnel. The little girl’s all chatters and giggles. He’s crouched low, nodding and smiling like the universe begins and ends with whatever she’s saying.
A childhood memory creeps in. I was six, climbing the old maple in our yard when the branch snapped. Maurice warned me a dozen times to stay out of that tree. I fell, palms scraped, knees bloody. Mom was out, so he’s the one I cried to. He scolded me the whole time he cleaned and bandaged me up. Then he took me for ice cream. I babbled about the squirrel I’d been chasing, and though he didn’t approve, he still listened like it mattered.
I used to recall that story like the scolding was the headline. Probably because that fit my image of him. But now, as we’re finally trying to figure each other out after years of rough spots and thorny edges, I can see that I’ve judged him just as harshly as he’s judged me.
When he said he’d spoken to Dice about his father, I jumped down his throat. Accused him of pushing, meddling, being overbearing.
But Dice… Dice of all people saw it clearer than I did. It wasn’t about control. It was protectiveness. His version of support. Not gentle or diplomatic, but genuine.
Apologizing to Maurice is never easy. I usually plant my flag and defend it, wrong and strong. But watching that dad and daughter, remembering the ice cream parlor, and hearing Dice’s voice in my head, makes mewant to fix it.
By the time we get home, Queenie’s passed out in her carrier like she just shut down the club. I drop my purse on the counter, kick off my boots, and pour a glass of wine. Liquid fortification. Then I call Maurice.
“Charlotte,” he answers crisply.
“You busy?”
“I’m always busy.”
I roll my eyes. “Do you have a minute, or should I call back?”
“I have time.”
Why couldn’t he just say that? But I’m not looking to argue.
“About the other day, when you told Dice to deal with his father, I came at you hot.”
“You did,” he says, like he’s making a note in his ledger.
“I’m sorry I reacted without trying to understand. I thought you were trying to control the situation. But that’s not how it was.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
I trace the stem of my glass. “You were looking out for me. Dice helped me see that. He said it was the push he needed to call his father. They’re meeting tomorrow.”
