“I’m sorry about Butter and Noodle,” I say, recalling her words from earlier.
She sighs. “They were great kitties, and I was lucky to have them for so long. I just wish there was some type of pet owner support group I could have gone to. Sometimes other people just don’t get it. But cat parents? They understand.”
I nod, placing Coral’s carrier in the car, swallowing the lump in my throat.
I’m going to be a mess when Bean finally gets adopted, too.
“Do you have any pets?” Taylor asks, and I shake my head.
“I don’t. These cats are kind of all my pets, I guess. That’s why it’s so hard to see them go.”
Taylor quirks her lip, her green eyes fond. “You have a big heart. You’ll make a great cat mom.”
More tears fill my eyes, and I chuckle weakly. “Come on! I’ve already cried enough today.”
There’s a reason I don’t have any pets, but it’s not one I want to share with Taylor.
If I already panic this much at the rescue about the cats, how would I be with a pet of my own?
Would I be so terrified at every little cough and sneeze that I wouldn’t be able to leave my house?
Even Avery has asked me if I wanted a cat.
OfcourseI do. I want themall.
I would love to be a cat superhero and fly around the world and save all the strays and ferals.
But if I panicked this much about our office cat’s random squinty eye, how would I feel if that happened in the middle of the night at my apartment?
Would I be stuck doomscrolling the internet for worst-case-scenario answers or driving to an emergency animal hospital just to be told I’m being ridiculous?
I’m already embarrassed enough about what happened yesterday with Logan.
There’s a sinking, horrible realization that maybe I’ll never be able to own a cat.
Maybe I’ll just be stuck worrying about them, then saying goodbye when they leave.
The thought is sobering, and my smile is tight when Taylor hugs me and promises to give me an update on how Coral, Ginger, and Pumpkin acclimate to their new home.
I trudge back into the rescue; my eyes still blurry with tears as I open the front door.
Immediately, I’m assaulted by that tempting, infuriating scent.
A sweet, forbidden glass of oaky bourbon mixed with warm vanilla.
Logan stands at the reception desk, petting Alvin with one hand, holding an iced coffee in the other.
Today, he’s in a white button-up shirt and black slacks that fit him entirely too well. With a light brown belt and brown shoes, he looks even better than he did yesterday.
Alvin, unaware of my internal panic, nuzzles into Logan’s long fingers.
I scowl at the scene, irritated.
Why is he here? Why parade his delicious scent, long fingers, and iced coffee in my face?
But when he looks at me, my face softens.
He almost seems…nervous?
