Page 6

Todd:

Text me anytime.

Copy.

I slam my fist into the mattress.

Boone’s blood. My hands. That sound. It's still sharp in my mind. Never fades.

I drag both hands through my hair and hold them there, elbows on my knees, picturing Kitty. Something about her cuts through the noise in my head. She doesn’t know she does it. I leave my room, pull on cargo jeans, a tan shirt, and a flannel over that. Don’t bother with the lights. Instead, I reach for my ballcap.

The morning air hits my chest, crisp and cold, exactly what I need. The town is barely awake, just the glow of streetlights, the smell of someone’s woodstove somewhere down the block. The scent of bread and other baked goods also wafts through the streets.

By the time my thoughts clear, Kitty Café comes into view before I’ve fully decided that’s where I’m going. I round the back, and a truck rolls up. My hand drops to my hip, reflex, muscle memory, pure instinct kicks in before I remember I’m not carrying. Haven’t been in two years. I hold still and clock it: Blue delivery truck with the local dairy logo on the side.

The driver’s door swings open, and a tall, lanky man steps out.

Dale.

Not a threat.

I let out a slow breath.

Shaggy dark hair, olive skin, a smile that says he’s got nowhere better to be. Dale sees me and waves. He’s the kind of person who makes small-town life look simple. That’s the thing about him. Nothing rattles the guy. Our lives are vastly different. We’re close in age, but that’s where the similarity ends. He’s got a wife, a baby on the way, and a dairy farm he gives a damn about. He and Todd go way back. In a town this size, that means I know him whether I want to or not. "Rydker." He grins. "Helping Miss Kitty out?"

I nod once.

The sun is starting to bleed pink and gold through the maples. Dale swings open the van doors; they creak loudly in the quiet as he hauls out a crate of milk. He walks the crate over and stops at the bottom step, and I take it without a word. My eyes drift up to the second floor. Her window. "She gets sad around Halloween," Dale says in a low tone. “Don’t know why exactly. But those smiles of hers—" He glances up at the same window. "Sometimes I think she's working really hard to make everyone believe them."

I don't say anything.

He hands off the last crate and straightens up. "Tell Todd he's got his beer credit that I still owe him with his name on it. I’ve been waiting on him to cash it in."

I watch Dale tip his head slightly. He knows I’m not one for small talk, so he doesn’t wait for a response. Just as he is about to get into his van, I call, “That beer credit’s a unicorn, Dale. You keep offering it. He’s never taking it.” I pause. "You know how he is," I add.

He cracks a smile and responds, “I know he won’t cash in, but I keep telling him he's got one anyway.” Dale looks up at her window, lit by a lamp that has just switched on. "Keep that smile on her face for a real reason.”

I shift the crate to one arm to give him a short salute. “Dale.” My farewell, that’s all I’ve got. He knows what it means.

He shifts the van into gear. “She’s a good friend to my wife. Don’t like seeing her sad.”

The van rolls down the alley, and I watch until the taillights disappear. I stand a second longer, jaw tight, staring at the door. I turn and reach for the door handle, which opens smoothly. My teeth are grinding in frustration. “Goddamn it, Kitty.”

Dale’s truck rumbles outside, waking me before my alarm. I sit up, dragging the sheets back. My eyes land on the calendar—as always, this time of year, I can’t help it.

October.

The date sits there. It doesn’t threaten me, but it doesn’t have to. My chest does the rest. I press my hand to where the ache lives and wait for it to ease, which it never does. The tears come anyway, the kind you no longer fight.

That’s when Sunny Buns makes her entrance. She prances in and jumps onto the mattress without a single care for personal space. Her tiny paws go straight to work kneading on my leg, and then she moves closer. The purr that follows is so loud it’s almost absurd. My little emotional-support cat, completely unasked-for, has absolutely perfect timing, like always. "Thanks, Sunny Buns," I say, running my hand down her back. She circles my lap approximately three hundred times before jumping up and planting her paws on either side of my neck and starts to lick my cheek. "Okay, okay. Come on, Sunny Buns. Let’s get you and the rest of the crew fed."

I take my time getting ready, standing in front of my closet until I remember what I’ve planned to wear. My ghost-print dress is on rotation for today. It’s a gray-and-white cotton ghost print, and my mustard-yellow cardigan, which I’ve owned since high school. I’ve had it for so long that it's stretched out. Teeth brushed, mascara and lip gloss in place. I push open the café door, the warm glow of the lights spilling over me, and feel it before I even look up. Rydker is here. He’s always here in the morning; it’s been days, now. Every morning, he’s doing something different. Spackling the wall, rehanging my framed art. Sealing the mortar between the old brick walls, tightening the sink faucet. Every day, something new, and every day it brings a new warmth to my heart. I always offer him a cup of coffee as a thank you. My other reward besides my café getting into better shape? It’s that cute dimple of his that pops out on the right side of his cheek when he’s trying to be grumpy and not smile. But I still see it.

Sunny Buns bolts across the room, meowing like she hasn’t been fed in a week. My eyes find Rydker crouched in the far corner, completely absorbed in Mr. Ned, my most unapproachable resident. Rydker strokes Mr. Ned’s nose with one finger, slow and patient, and I just stare.

Two grumps in the corner…I kind of love it.

Mr. Ned, who, until this week, has refused to acknowledge any human existence, is loafing contentedly while Rydker works his quiet magic. Mr. Ned’s nose lifts toward Rydker’s hand, his cartoon eyes slipping shut. Then comes the purr, it’s deep, a rolling rumble that I feel more than hear. I press my hand to my chest.