“With a Miley Cyrus song?”
“It’s the first one to pop into my head! Sorry!” I keep singing until I get snagged on the lyrics. I know it’s something about loving me better. I really don’t know this song and have no idea why it came to me when it did. I can only attribute my crazy brain to the fact that being around Charlotte just feels…surprising. It’s throwing me off.
She supplies the rest of the line and before I know it, we’re singing a duet. She’s right, she is kind of tone-deaf.
Which I somehow find adorable.
The kitten’s meow sounds closer, and I look to see him tentatively step through the hole we’ve made in the porch’s side.
Charlotte gives a little gasp, but I gesture to her to keep singing.
We keep whisper-singing words about buying our own flowers and talking to ourselves. The tiny cat, grey and white, shakily makes its way to the bowl, cautiously sniffs the contents, and laps at the liquid hungrily.
Charlotte stops singing. “Awww, he’s so cute.”
I carefully and quietly place the lattice board over the hole we had created. “We don’t want him running back in there after he’s done.”
The cat drinks maybe half of the formula in the bowl and then lifts his face, licks his mouth and whiskers, and then walks slowly over to me. His amber eyes scan the perimeter, and his little pink nose sniffs every which way before he gingerly steps into my lap.
“He loves you.” Charlotte’s mouth hangs open. “And he seems familiar with people, which means maybe he’s not a stray.”
I carefully lift my hand to pet his soft back. He turns around and stretches, paws out, tail up.
“Uh, I actually think it might be a girl.”
Charlotte gasps again. “Okay, then, we’re naming her Miley.”
I laugh. “Okay, done. Nice to meet you, Miley.” The kitten settles into my lap and meows again, but this time, it’s a softer, more contented sound. “Are you feeling better?” I ask the cat.
“She does like you,” Charlotte says with a smile.
Charlotte really is one of my oldest friends. I mean, we never were super close, of course. But I like her, in the way that one likes the younger sister of your closest friend.
I might know of another job for her. I attended a meeting on this very subject with my foundation’s president, Raj, where they discussed how the Sports Medicine Institute is hiring several occupational therapists along with a whole slew of physicians, trainers, researchers, and physical therapists. They’re opening up more positions within a couple of days.
If I could get her in front of the Human Resources people for the Institute, I’m sure they’d hire her.
With the money from my foundation, HR will definitely consider it. My mind turns. The HR director will be at our big spring training kickoff scrimmage tomorrow. It’s a private event, a short flag football game played for friends and family.
I want to help her.
“Hey, I have an idea. Will you come to a thing at the stadium tomorrow night?”
Chapter 12
Charlotte
Wearingheelstoafootball stadium just feels wrong. But after two video calls with Willa and several internet searches on such topics as “Best clothes for women with bright red hair,” there’s no going back now.
I also never thought I’d be going to a job interview—of sorts—at said football stadium, but here we are.
Because I’m suddenly the new, likely temporary, momma to a baby kitten, I almost turned Taysom down when he asked me last night to go to the stadium. She reluctantly followed us into the house once she finally stepped down from clawing all over Taysom’s chest and lap. By the time Taysom returned from the store with more cat milk replacer, a litter box, and a big bag of litter, she was making herself at home, mostly at a distance.
But when he walked through the door, she rubbed her back along every surface of his legs she could reach with zero reservations. She really went for it. Her whole song and dance would have put a Broadway star to shame.
Taysom asked me to come to this Friends and Family night to meet the Human Resources rep for the Sports Medicine Institute, saying they’re hiring OTs soon. I’m grateful for the opportunity to get my foot in the door—even if it is the monstrosity I’ve been blaming for all our problems. It’s not the kind of job I wanted, but beggars can’t be choosers.
Like my very heartbeat, the mantra “Find job. Find job. Find job” is the lub dub, lub dub echoing inside my chest. Even though I’ll still be working for two more months, I should secure something else as quickly as possible. Ron was right when he said that all of us at the center were good OTs, and since I’m the most junior OT of the bunch, the odds are stacked against me. It’s not likely I’ll beat out Willa or Skyler if we applied for the same position.
