Eventually, these people will outgrow their bar years. They’ll have kids or get tired of the late nights, and the celebrations at the Filthy Flamingo will end. A new group will arrive with their big laughs and smiles and inside jokes.
And I will still be here.
“Just wanted to capture the moment,” I tell Georgia with a shrug, tacking the photo up on the back wall behind the liquor bottles, with the others.
She gives me an understanding smile. “I’ll let you do your thing.”
She heads back to the group, where Alexei slips his arm around her waist and pulls her against him, and the group is complete once again. Everyone is exactly where they’re meant to be. Them there, and me back here.
Later, I open the back door to take the garbage out and something skitters past my feet.
“Jesus Christ!”
A low, garbled gremlin noise rumbles and I whip around.
It sits on the pavement, staring up at me, tail flicking in the dim alley.
Its eyes are way too big and way too close together. It doesn’t have a nose. No, wait, it does, it’s just really tiny. That’s why its breathing sounds like snoring. It has an unfortunate underbite, tongue hanging out between its bottom teeth. Even its black fur is... clumpy? Greasy, like it got into something in the garbage.
If that’s a cat, it’s the ugliest cat I’ve ever seen. It looks like a three-year-old’s badly glued-together daycare project.
It makes a noise that sounds like a distorted version ofmeow.
It’s skinny, too. Too skinny. Does it have a collar? I lean over to look and it hisses at me, wonky eyes mean and defensive. My hands go up in surrender.
“I’m trying to help you, no need to be a bitch.”
Like it’s offended, it dashes off.
“I don’t even like cats, anyway,” I call after it.
Back in the bar, I’m clearing empties, making drinks, keeping the bar tidy, but that ugly little cat keeps popping into my head. I’m sure she’s fine on her own. She? Yes, she. It has to be a she, with that attitude.
I glance toward the hallway that leads to the back door.
What if she isn’t fine? She looked small. Maybe she’s really young. A twist of worry spins in my chest. It’s January in Vancouver, cold and damp.
And she’s eating garbage. That’s not okay. She could get sick.
Minutes later, I set a plate of microwaved eggs on the ground. The cat is nowhere to be seen. Maybe she’ll come back. Maybe she’s watching right now.
“Hi,” a low, male, and amused voice says, and I jolt.
Tate leans on the doorframe with a curious look. My hand goes to my racing heart.
His eyebrows rise. “Still tense, I see.”
The back of my neck prickles. “You were lurking.”
“I was waiting.” He glances at the plate of eggs. “Who’s that for?”
I don’t want to tell him. I don’t want him to know anything about me.
“A raccoon?” he prompts.
I make a face. “Everyone knows not to feed the trash pandas. It was a cat.” I’m grateful it’s dark out, so he can’t see my face going red.
“Twice in one day?” I ask. Let’s get the attention off me. “What’s the matter, couldn’t get enough of me?”
