The rest of the day passes in a blur of errands, including buying cat supplies. By the time I pull into the driveway, exhaustion has caught up with me.
It's past eleven. The house is dark except for the porch light Beck leaves on. I grab my bag and head for my door, keys already out.
And stop.
There's a mug on the ledge outside my door. Steam rises from it in the cold night air --- coffee, fresh enough that it's still warm. No note. No explanation. Just a mug of coffee that smells like the exact blend Beck drinks every morning.
Clarence sits beside it, tail wrapped around his rear paws, looking unbearably smug. He must see the cat supplies in my bag because his ears prick forward with the satisfaction of a cat who knew exactly how this was going to go.
My throat tightens. I pick up the mug and wrap both hands around it, letting the warmth seep into my palms. The house is dark behind Beck's windows. Beck must have heard my car pull up. Left this here without a word.
No explanation needed. No words to cover the awkwardness. Just:I heard you come home. Here.
I stand in the doorway holding the mug, Clarence purring at my feet, and make myself the same deal I always do --- six weeks, no getting attached, an exit strategy ready when I need it.
The problem is, I already bought the cat food.
And Beck already knows how I take my coffee.
And six weeks is starting to feel like a very naive number.
Chapter 9
Beck
The coffee thing has gotten out of hand.
I know her shift schedule. Know exactly when she gets home. I time the brewing so the pot finishes right before her Honda pulls into the driveway---pour two cups, leave one at her door, retreat to my house before she makes it from her car to her entrance.
She finds it still warm. Every time.
I'm unreasonably proud of this timing. I've calibrated it down to the minute---early rotation, swing shift, overnight. I know every variation. I know the sound of her car engine, can distinguish it from the neighbor's Toyota three houses down.
This is not normal landlord behavior.
I don't examine this behavior. Examining it means admitting things I'm not ready to admit.
What I can't explain is Clarence.
The cat started appearing at my door three mornings ago. Just sitting there when I step out to grab the newspaper, orange fur gleaming in the early light, eyes fixed on me with absolute judgment.
This morning is no different.
I open the door to grab the newspaper and find Clarence sitting on my welcome mat like he owns it.
"What?" I ask.
The cat blinks. Slowly. His tail twitches at the tip.
"I'm not doing anything weird," I tell him.
Clarence's tail swishes once, sweeping across the concrete.
"She needs coffee. I make coffee. It's efficient."
The cat stands, arches his back in a long stretch that somehow manages to look condescending, and walks past me into my house.
I follow him inside and make a sweeping gesture toward the kitchen. "Come on in. Make yourself at home."
