He didn’t have to say anything. He said it anyway.
My doorbell rings.
I look at the nest feed alert on my phone.
Jax. Carrier in his hand. Brick’s eyes through the door slats giving me the specific look of a cat who has been transported against his will.
I buzz the door open.
He comes in and takes in my apartment — the notebooks everywhere, the camera bag by the door, the bowl I keep out the back door for Dina. He doesn’t comment on any of it. He just looks and nods slightly like he’s confirming something to himself.
“Sorry.” He gestures to the crate. “Josie’s mom went into surgery this morning. She’s at the hospital.”
“So you brought me your cat.”
“I came to check on you.”
That shuts me up.
He looks at the carrier.
Then back at me.
“ I had to bring him,” he adds.
Brick makes a low, offended sound from inside the carrier, like he would like the record to show he had no part in this decision.
I look at Jax.
He looks back.
“I was only going to stay a minute,” he says.
“Obviously.”
I find that unbearably endearing, which is unfortunate because I am already low on defenses today.
But I’m not saying any of that out loud.
“It’s okay. You can put him over there.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
He sets the carrier down. Opens the door. Brick walks out, surveys the apartment, and walks the perimeter like a damn building inspector. Sits down on my couch in the spot I sit in and looks directly at me.
“He’s deciding,” Jax says.
“Deciding what.”
“Whether the place meets standards.”
Brick blinks once.
“Apparently it does.”
I look at Jax. He’s standing in my kitchen with his cat on my couch and his hands in his pockets like that’s a normal Tuesday afternoon.
