“It is not kidnapping if you come willingly,” he says easily, shifting his weight like he has all day to wear down my resistance.
“I am not coming willingly.”
“You might.” His voice carries the kind of confidence that suggests he knows something I don’t.
“I will not.” I shift my weight, tightening my grip around my coffee cup.
“You will,” he insists.
I squint at him, studying the way his eyes crinkle slightly at the corners, the way he holds himself like he’s already won this argument. “You have come here with a plan.”
“I have come here with lunch.” He lifts the basket slightly, as if I might have missed it.
“And a blanket.” I point at the folded wool in his other hand.
“Picnics require blankets.”
“They also require bugs.” I let my face scrunch in disgust at the thought of mosquitoes and whatever other creatures lurk in the Massachusetts wilderness.
“Fresh air,” he counters.
“Mosquitoes,” I reply flatly.
“Not this time of year. October, mosquitoes are mostly dead. But there’s sunshine.” He gestures toward the clear blue sky visible above the porch roof.
I glance at the basket again despite myself, my traitorous stomach choosing that exact moment to remind me that coffee does not constitute a proper breakfast.
Maceo clocks it immediately, his grin sharpening with victory like a predator who’s just spotted movement in the underbrush.
“This is manipulation,” I say, throwing my hand up in exasperation and nearly sloshing coffee down the front of my pajama shirt.
“This is lunch,” he says, completely unrepentant.
Behind me, Sir hops down from the sofa with a soft thud and pads into the foyer with quiet measured steps, his claws clicking softly against the hardwood. He sits beside the staircase banister and watches the entire exchange like a judge observing courtroom chaos, his tail curled neatly around his paws.
“You’re not coming?” I ask over my shoulder.
Sir lifts one paw and begins grooming it with elaborate attention to detail.“I am a cat today.”
I turn back toward him, abandoning my staring contest with Maceo for a moment. “You spent the last week reminding me you are not a cat.”
“And today I am embracing my feline identity.”He doesn’t look up from his paw.“Cats do not go on picnics. Cats stay inside where it is warm and there are no leaves to stick in their fur.”
What a little traitor.
Maceo rocks slightly on his heels, letting us go back and forth in silence, the basket swinging lightly from his hand like a pendulum counting down my resistance.
“You have five minutes to change,” he says.
“I did not agree to anything.” I turn my attention back to him, trying to summon what remains of my dignity.
“You will.”
“I will not.”
“You will,” he insists, devastating me with that damn smile. The one that suggests patience, confidence, and an irritating certainty about my future decisions that I’m beginning to suspect might be entirely accurate.
I sigh, a long exhale that carries the weight of defeat.
