“Boy, you trippin’. That’s crazy. I don’t like cats.”
“Then give her to the shelter. Let it be their problem.”
“She can’t be in that environment.”
“You ain’t slick, Lot. You may not like cats, but you’ve fallen for Queenie. Might as well stop fighting it.”
She narrows her eyes.
“You don’t have to decide right now,” I add, taking off the pressure. “Just let it sit a while.”
“Nothing to sit with.” She pouts and starts drumming the counter with her fingers, thinking hard while pretending not to.
“This calls for comfort food and a movie,” I announce. That was always the cure when she was having a bad day or pissed after a fight with her father.
“Mac and cheese?” She perks up.
“I thought you were too chefy now for the boxed stuff.”
“This ain’t Thanksgiving, Jones. I can slum it with you today.”
I pop the cabinet open and grab the blue box off the shelf. “This right here is powdered gold.”
She laughs and sets a pot of water to boil. We move around the kitchen with a natural ease. She dumps the noodles in, and when they’re ready, I work the cheese dust magic with milk and butter.
“What movie?” I ask, filling two bowls.
Lot raises an eyebrow. “You reallygotta ask?”
Five minutes later, we’re on the couch—bowls in our laps, beers on the table, feet up,Pulp Fictioncued up like it’s 2015 and we’re back in my old apartment. She sinks into the cushions and spoons cheesy mac into her mouth with a moan that’s low-key orgasmic.
“Mmm. This never gets old.”
I clink my bottle to hers, and we turn our attention to the screen. That whacked comment from last night and the strange call this morning still linger, but Lot’s presence cuts through the noise.
After we finish eating, Queenie curls up on her lap and Lot strokes her fur, like a real cat hater. The woman is delusional about her feelings.
Maybe we both are.
I sling an arm around her shoulders, keeping it chill. She doesn’t pull away, even as Queenie snarls at me.
“Hush, girl,” Lot mutters. “That’s why people be writing shit about you.”
Then, right on cue, during the dinner scene, we both say, “I’m a mushroom-cloud-layin’ motherfucker,” and burst out laughing.
We’ve watched this movie a hundred times. Quoted every line. But it feels different now. Not just nostalgia, but old bleeding into something new.
Whatever Lot and I are, it’s this.
Familiarity. Closeness. Connection.
Feels good.
Don’t need to make it about anything else.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Lot
