Chapter Thirteen
Minerva
For the last three days, Tristan has left exactly two cups of coffee in the pot. Next to the pot, my favorite mug and favorite spoon are left in the exact same positions, freshly washed and arranged exactly as I like. It feels intentional. Considerate. He’s… anticipating me. I’m not used to that.
I sip my coffee as I examine the giant whiteboard, now attached to the wall of the dining area.
The expansive range of marker colors makes my fingers itch to try them all, but for now, I’m keeping things simple. Things I like are written in green. Things I dislike are written in red. Things I want to try are written in yellow, except that the yellow is really hard to read against the white, so I’ve had to go over them with orange, despite my aesthetic dislike with the breakdown in the system. The only other color I’ve used is purple, which currently represents things that are situationally dependent.
At the moment, the tally reads thus—
Green: cheese, crackers, granola bars, fresh fruit, big sweatshirts, grippy socks, weekly task routine, Kepler.
Red: wet socks, loud noises, the big living room light, surprise touches.
Yellow (slash orange): time-controlled lightbulb, weighted blanket, blowjobs??
Purple: hugs, kissing, bubble bath, tomatoes.
Part of me wants to put Tristan on the board, but I think he’d be offended if I wrote his name in purple. It’s not that I only likehim sometimes, but the comfort that I glean from his presence depends on the situation and how I feel at the time.
When I’m already feeling good, spending time with him adds to my happiness. When I’m having a rough day, being around him makes me feel better. But when I’m having a meltdown, or when I’m having the kind of no-bones day that makes showering or putting on real pants seem like an impossible task, I wish I could get away from him. I don’t want him to see the worst sides of me.
So far, he’s managed to convince himself that I’m someone worth spending time with. That I’m attractive. If he realizes that I’m just… me, he’ll get bored. That’s one reason that I’m still secretly scrolling through apartment listings. If I move out, I have a better chance of hiding my flaws and keeping this job, and Tristan might find me sufficiently mysterious to hold his interest. If I stay, and he discovers that I’m sometimes incapable of basic hygiene, or that I sometimes get so depressed that I can barely move, he’ll kick me out anyway. Better to get ahead of the curve and eject myself before that happens.
But would Tristan really do that? Answer: I don’t know. I don’t think so, but what if I’m wrong? What secrets is he hiding from me, the way I’m hiding the disappointing parts of myself from him?
I didn’t realize I’d zoned out until Kepler chirps and hops up into my lap. He headbutts my arm so hard that I almost slop tepid coffee over the rim of the cup.
“Excuse you!” I make a face at him. Kepler chirps again as he clambers into the front of my sweatshirt for a cuddle. Unlike people, who are flawed, Kepler is perfect, so I let him get comfortable. I have a little more research to do before I start this morning’s project, anyway.
* * *
“Okay,” I tell Kepler, “here’s the plan.” I point to the semiliquid layer of sealant, still in its jar. “I think that, with careful application, I can create a moisture-wicking layer on the outside of the mattress, with no toxic chemicals or fumes to worry about.”
I’ve noticed that Tristan runs hot and tends to sweat at night, which affects his REM sleep—not to mention any other bodily secretions that could seep into his mattress. It’s easy enough to wash the sheets, but the mattress is another matter.
Rather than experimenting with Tristan’s bed, however, I’ve decided to start with mine. The guest bedroom mattress is cheaper, for one thing.
I put on a podcast about sports medicine and get to work. The liquid sealer is a little hard to work with, since it doesn’t go on smoothly, but if I’m careful and take my time, I can work in layers.
I’m about halfway through when someone outside honks their car horn. I’m pretty sure that it’s nothing, but Kepler doesn’t know that. He bursts out of his bed, startled out of his sleep, and bolts.
Right into the container of sealant.
My stomach drops. Of course. Of course, it goes wrong the one time I try to do something helpful.
“Kepler, no!” I shriek, but it’s already too late. The sealant is already seeping into the fabric. His little feet are completely covered in the stuff.
I’m confident that the material isn’t toxic toward humans, but I’m not going to risk Kepler’s safety. What if he licks it while he’s grooming and it gives him an intestinal block? Or something worse?
“Come here,” I coo, cradling the little guy in my arms. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
I’ve never been able to figure out if Kepler loves or hates baths. What I do know is that they give him the zoomies. I could really use an extra pair of hands to hold him still while I use Dawn to clean his back, his tail, and in between his adorable little toes.
He squeaks and squirms and thrashes like an eel, right up until the moment when I start to towel him off. As soon as he can get away from me, he explodes out of my arms, fur standing on end as he runs up and down through the hallway in an endless figure-eight.
I’m glad that he’s having fun. That makes one of us.
