But there’s no one to comfort or soothe, since we barely spoke a few words to each other.
So why the hell are my primal instincts kicking in?
It’s beenyearssince any of that has happened.
One would think that by forty-fucking-years old I would be mated or at least dating.
I’ve given up on scent matches. If it hasn’t happened by now, it never will. It’s taken a long time for me to accept it, and some days, the knowledge still hurts.
But I’ll be damned if I get in the way of Ivan and Maeve being together.
I’ll apologize to her with the coffee tomorrow, force myself to forget about the awkwardness of today, and ignore the feelings that try to bubble to the surface when I think about her.
Yes. That’s exactly what I’ll do, and everything will go back to normal, and I can focus on my job.
I swear I can smell her in the air, though, even as I pull into my driveway. The ghost of chamomile leaves follows me through the front door of my house, even when I kick off my shoes and head into the living room.
“Mrow.”
A long, mournful wail echoes from the hallway to my bedroom, the sound of a feline proudly presenting its kill.
It shouldnotricochet off the walls this dramatically, though.
My house is too big.
“Bring it here, Trooper,” I sigh, lying on the couch, my head propped against a pillow. The medical journals sit on the coffee table next to me, but for some reason, my head is too tired for my evening reading.
There is a slight dip in the couch, then strong white paws press into my stomach, and a damp plush toy is dropped onto my chest.
“Thanks, buddy,” I grimace. “Why did this one have to be full of drool, though?” I sigh.
The teal-colored catnip mouse is just another reminder ofher.
Furs and Purrsis stitched in white on the mouse, and I toss it across the living room as I huff in defeat.
Of course, Trooper’s newest toy would be his favorite, courtesy of Ivan. He had given me some Furs and Purrs merch the other day, and now a teal mug, a cat toy, and a black and teal sweatshirt sit in my house.
With a trill, the cat scampers off, his missing leg not stopping him from thundering across the hardwood floor.
Stella makes her appearance shortly after, daintily and quietly perching on the top of the couch above my head. She curls into a tiny, fluffy grey ball, her chest rising and falling slowly in contentment.
It’s a typical evening. Usually, I’ll have the local news on in the background, prepare a cup of tea (chamomile—how ironic) and read on the couch until I fall asleep.
But tonight?
Tonight is different.
Tonight is unsettling.
I stare up at the vaulted ceiling, overwhelmed with how big—and empty—my home is.
This place has four bedrooms, and for what?
I only use one. The other I turned into an office, and the other two belong to the cats.
“Why the hell did I buy a packhouse?” I ask to no one in particular.
A soft trill is my only reply.
