Grace meows and slinks from my lap over to Summer’s, always chasing the newest source of attention.
If we’re assigning blame, it probably starts with her. And me, for being such a sucker. The thought of Grace being alone so much with my schedule filled me with guilt. I’ve heard enough horror stories about pissed-off cats and ruined furniture to err on the side of caution.
Summer runs a hand down Grace’s back. “It’s weird that she’s a girl,” she says randomly.
“Is it?” I raise a brow.
“Yeah. Almost eighty percent of orange cats are male.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“The gene for orange fur is on the X chromosome. So, females need two X chromosomes, versus males only needing one to be fully orange,” she explains, and Grace meows as if in agreement. “You’re a rare girl,” she tells my cat.
I think they have that in common.
“How do you know so much about cats?”
“There were lots of strays where I grew up. I used to feed them when I could.”
She doesn’t say more, and I wish she would. How did she grow up? Does she have siblings? Are her parents still together? Will she miss her family while she’s up here? There’s too much I want to ask. Instead, I hum, picturing a younger version of Summer with an army of strays trailing after her. I can see it.
Last night barely scratched the surface of all the things I want to know about her.
“Back to that date…”
Summer laughs. Mission accomplished. She settles on the couch, tucking her legs under her and pulling Grace a little closer.
“You mean the date we’re not going on?” She taps a finger against her lips before adding, “Yeah. We’re not going on it.”
I groan. “You’re killing me.”
She huffs out a breath as a flush climbs her neck. “Can’t say that,” she singsongs.
Her meaning clicks, and in an instant, I’m back under her, groaning “You’re going to kill me” into her neck for averydifferent reason.
“Sorry.” I rub a hand over my stubble.
“It can’t happen again,” she whispers, like she’s trying to convince herself of it. Then the tension creeps back into her face, and her words speed up again. “Not when I’m living here. And I can’t afford to find another place?—”
“I would never ask you to move out,” I cut in. “And I want you to be comfortable here. This is your place now, too. So, we’ll just…”
I let the sentence die, because I’m not sure where that leaves us. Other than disappointed that the one woman I’ve felt a sparkwith in years is now off-limits. And relieved, because that spark? Itterrifiesme.
“Be friends?” she offers.
Friends.
The word doesn’t sit right, but I agree anyway. “Sure.”
I could do friends.
We couldtotallybe friends.
My gaze blurs, and when I blink back into focus, I’m looking at her chest. She’s wearing the same sweater as last night.
“Friends.” I do a weird combo of trying to shake the thoughts out of my head and nodding.
I’ve done harder things. Rehabbed a broken collarbone. Watched my ex walk away. Captained a losing team.
