“Mr. K.”
“In Python plotting, black is ‘k.’” Her whole face is alive as she smiles.
“That’s very nerdy of you, Sadie, but I think that seals the deal.”
“Black suits his personality, don’t you think?”
“Or hers.” I wink at her, and she rolls her lips together as she looks away like she’s trying not to laugh. Something stutters in my chest.
When my eyes swing from her face, we’re right outside our building, and Darius raises a hand in salute as we head through the door. Sadie rifles around in the bag from the store and pulls out the cat treats, going down on her haunches and holding one out. The cat’s eyes are slits as it glowers at her. But when she tosses it on the floor in front of it, its nose twitches, and it wolfs it down, watching us out of the corner of its eyes. She lays a trail that ends with a treat in the carrier, and the cat devours them all, chewing on the last one as we shut the door on it. Sadie gives it two more through the wire mesh for good measure.
“We’re going to have to comb the apartment from top to bottom for how she escaped,” I say.
“She,” she tuts as I pick up the carrier and we head into the elevator.
Once we’re upstairs, we leave the cat locked up while we move the furniture and search. It yowls nonstop, and I tell it to make up its mind because it was only too happy to stay in the carrier when I left it this morning. After about twenty minutes, we find a vent tucked under a chest of drawers with no cover on it.
“Jesus, how long did she wander around the ducting in this building? If she hadn’t managed to get down to the lobby, we might never have found her,” I say.
“I’m wondering how she got down six stories,” Sadie says.
“Christ knows. I hope she’s okay.” We both study the cat carrier.
“Apart from being mentally deranged, you mean?” Sadie adds, and I laugh.
After I talk to Darius, he manages to come up with a spare vent cover from the basement. Des has a toolbox tucked in the hall closet, which I’m frankly amazed to find because he really isn’t the kind of guy who’d ever use one. I screw the cover in place as Sadie turns one of Des’s plastic serving trays into a makeshift litter box. But when we open the door of the carrier, the cat just stares at us mutinously, then starts washing its back leg. I can’t say it out loud, but this cat reminds me of Jane—she was always digging her heels in about something. Sadie finds a small towel and manages to slot it in beside the cat, and it curls up and goes to sleep.
Later that night, I wake with a start as the covers move by my feet. When I peer down, a dark silhouette is illuminated by the streetlight seeping around the blinds. The cat is on the edge of the bed as far away from me as possible.
“Whatever,” I mutter. “Just don’t fucking wake me up again. I’m very tired and I’ve got a lot on my plate at the moment. I don’t need another problem to add to the list.”
She stands one paw up, eyes fixed on me, and I close my eyes and turn on my side, pulling the sheet under my chin. When I peek at her again over my shoulder, she’s curled up at the bottom of the mattress. I don’t know why, but I’ve already decided she’s female in my mind, and a smile curls over my lips at Sadie’s outrage over my having assigned the cat’s gender based on how difficult it is.
Something about the way the cat’s sought me out makes warmth curl through me. I’ve had the best evening I’ve had in weeks, possibly months. It doesn’t feel like it right now, but maybe one day I’ll be able to see past all this. I’d love there to be some more positive future for me out there, quietly waiting.
Chapter 12
Sadie
James called the shelter today and discovered that the cat is male, so he’s now officially Mr. Karen. I’ve reminded James twice in the office that difficulty is indeed gender-related and it’s definitely a masculine trait. Every time I’ve said this, his lips have curled up at the corners.
He plonks an onion on the chopping board and spins a knife in his hands like he’s on a cookery show. “So,” he says, “cooking. This is an onion.” He winks at me. “Cut off the top and the bottom, and that makes it easier to remove the skin.”
Mr. Karen’s head tips back as he sniffs the air. No doubt he’s helping with my inability to look at and talk to James. I hope to God I can keep interacting with him like a normal person, given that we’re sharing an apartment and, apparently, are now co-carers of a cat who’s currently sitting on his furry little butt, looking up at us. His nose twitches again, and he gets up and paces along the front of the cabinets.
But as I study James’s strong hands and long fingers on the handle of the knife, I can’t throw off the emptiness in the pit of my stomach. We’re here, just the two of us. What the hell do you say to a guy like James Royce to make conversation?
“What are you reading at the moment?” I blurt out.
“The Sands of Mars, by Arthur C. Clarke,” he says, scooping up and dumping the chopped onions into a pan on the stovetop.
“I’ve actually heard of him.”
He raises his eyebrows. “He wrote2001: A Space Odyssey. It’s a masterpiece. I’m trying to get through his other novels, but I’m rather short of time for some reason.” His lips twist. “2001is sitting on my nightstand if you want to check it out.”
This is what all the advice columns tell you to do. Talk to a man about something he’s interested in. Not that I’ve ever paid much attention to all that stuff. Making conversation with guys has never been my forte. At least James is pretty relaxed, and Iliketalking about books.
“What’s next on the recipe?” he says.
