sure
Thompson
all in favor. motion carries. Mueller you can participate in discussion once you’ve completed The Trades. the window for objection has closed
Mueller
i haven’t agreed to any of this
Thompson
you’re in the chat Mueller. the chat is the agreement
Hájek
welcome to both of you. we are glad you are here. this group has changed my English and my understanding of relationships
Thompson
is the captain still in here?
Kowalski
he’s here. zero messages across four full books’ worth of reading. but he named a cat after a ship name from this series so he is DEFINITELY reading
Mueller
he named a cat after a fictional relationship?
Thompson
you’ll understand when you’ve read the books
Marchetti
everyone download “Off the Record” tonight. Mueller start The Trades. welcome to Five Hole Fiction!
Chapter 11 — TEO
Zay texts at six fourteen that he’s on his way with the cat toys. A friend of his was moving and giving away a cat tree. This is a professional courtesy. Nothing more than that. Obviously.
I buzz him in without asking any follow-up questions because I am deeply committed to the integrity of feline happiness. The bolognese on the stove is a coincidence. The playlist running through the speaker on the kitchen counter is just music. Nothing to see here.
Parker is on the couch corner in her corner. The one with her special blanket and twenty toys she moves around the apartment every hour. She hears the knock before I get to it and her ears rotate but she doesn’t move.
I open the door. Zay is in a gray quarter-zip and joggers, carrying a box. His eyes move past me into the apartment immediately, scanning the way he scans. Taking inventory.
“Shoes okay here?”
“Anywhere.” I step back. “Parker’s on the couch. Holding court.”
He steps in. His shoes come off and he lines them up by the door, paired, angled. Then he’s standing in my living room and I watch his eyes take it in. The counter crowded with a cutting board and open spice jars, nonna’s bolognese recipe taped to the cabinet. The fridge with nonna’s opinions: a note about proper tomato storage, a prayer card from my cousin’s baptism, a photo of me at eight holding a fish I caught that summer in Belmar. Kitten toys scattered across the hardwood. Sneakers Parker hasn’t destroyed yet, living on borrowed time.
“It’s a lot,” I say, trying to look at my space through his eyes.
“It’s exactly what I expected.” He lets the smile grow, the one he doesn’t allow at work.
Parker watches him approach the couch. One ear forward, one rotated sideways, the full security assessment. Zay crouches and holds out his hand. She sniffs and touches her nose to his knuckle. Then she turns around, flicks her tail across his wrist, and resettles with her back to him.
