Because he's the one who found her. The one who brought her to me wrapped in that ridiculous flannel shirt, his massive hands so careful around her tiny body. The one who talks to her in that invented nursery rhythm I pretend not to hear when he thinks I'm busy.
The one who would drop everything and tear apart the entire street looking for her.
It goes to voicemail. His voice is gruff, matter-of-fact: "Can't answer. Leave words."
I swallow hard. "Hey. Um. Pebble's missing. I can't find her anywhere. If you—if you see her, can you let me know? Please?"
My voice cracks on the last word. I hate that. Hate how small I sound, how desperate.
I hang up before I can say anything else stupid. Gaze at the phone like it might ring immediately with good news, like he might call back right this second and tell me she's curled up on his doorstep or tangled in the tomato plants he keeps trying to grow in those lopsided pots.
It doesn't.
The screen stays dark and silent.
I call Sienna next. She answers on the second ring, her voice muzzy with sleep but sharpening the instant I explain. She promises to come over and help search. Tells me not to panic, that cats are resourceful, that Pebble's probably just exploring.
I want to believe her.
I can't.
Then I just. Sit.
On the floor behind the counter, knees drawn up to my chest, flour dust smudging my jeans. The café feels enormous around me. Too bright. Too empty. Every shadow looks like a kitten that isn't there.
The café is too quiet without Pebble's demanding meows. Without her tiny paws tapping across the counter.
Without Grath's heavy footsteps and his ridiculous questions about espresso machines.
The emptiness is suffocating.
I think about the last thing I said to him. About not needing anyone.
What a stupid, cowardly lie.
I need him. Need his steadiness and his awful metaphors and the way he looks at me like I'm something precious instead of something broken.
I need Pebble's entitled attitude and her soft purrs and the way she curls up between us at night like she's claiming both of us.
I need my café and my community and the life I've built here.
And I'm losing all of it because I was too scared to admit I needed help.
Too scared to admit I needed him.
Sienna arrives with flashlights and a determined expression. We search the café again. Then the alley behind it. Then the neighboring buildings.
No sign of Pebble.
"She probably just snuck out," Sienna says. "Cats do that. She'll come back when she's hungry."
"What if she doesn't?"
"She will."
But Sienna's voice wavers. Just slightly.
We search until three in the morning. Until my feet ache and my voice is hoarse from calling Pebble's name.
