by K. S. Thomas
Being with them, makes everything easy. Even the hard things. Like leaving. Going on to the next place. Because I know eventually, I get to come back.
And, Ben, I come back a lot.
Don’t rush. But when it’s time, consider Positano, Italy for your next destination. Rent a car. Drive all the scenic routes, and when you’re hungry, stop in at Ristorante Don Giovanni for the most divine meal you’ll ever taste while taking in a view so beautiful, it’ll steal your breath away.
Love, Ky
P.S. Ask for Carlo and tell him I sent you. He’ll hook you up.
Another clue. Maybe two, since I haven’t been to any place called The Octave Below nor have I ever heard of it. I’m both thrilled and oddly disappointed. Like it’s too soon, and I’m not ready to leave just yet. I don’t feel like I found the thing I came here for. I mean, obviously, it’s her, but more than that, I know there’s some small piece of life she wants to share with me here, same as she wants me to enjoy a meal in Italy, and I don’t know that I’ve experienced it yet. Even if it’s just spending time with the Laurents, I haven’t had nearly enough of their company.
So, I do what she says. I don’t rush. I lie back on the bed, propped up on my pillows, and I read. The entire book. Every comic strip. Every page. And I laugh. I laugh a lot. More than I think I’ve ever laughed while reading.
Every so often, I imagine her sitting here with me, grinning the way she does when she’s thinking ‘I told you so’.
When I finish the book, I sit with it for a while, sinking into this contentment that comes from being amused so easily. And also, realizing my connection to her is still just as strong as it ever was. I picked up a book, a random book on a shelf filled with many, and she was in it.
Which makes me wonder.
I get up and make my way back to the shelf, carefully scanning the titles, remembering where I picked up the one I’m still holding. Then, when I find the spot, I move down to the shelf below and search for it. Hägar the Horrible - The Epic Chronicles, right where she said would be.
I return the B.C. book to its spot and make my way back to my bed.
Anticipation builds as I sit down and settle in again. This time, peeling back the covers to peek at the pages inside seems a great deal more significant. Sacred even. Not just because she wants me to read this book, but because I think it’s possible there may be more to read inside than the epic chronicles of Hägar the Horrible.
I pause, accepting that it’s possible I’m wrong, and that even if I am, I still intend to enjoy the stories. Then, carefully, I open the book and begin to thumb through the pages.
Page seventy-nine is where I find it.
Another rose. Another letter.
Carefully, I place the rose onto the nightstand beside the first. Then, I slide my finger under the flap of the envelop and flip it open.
Excitement grows even as I’m pulling the folded sheet of paper out. It’s pink this time, with ink stains in the corner, as if her pen leaked at one point, and I remember how her fingers were always tinted black or blue from the fountain pens she insisted on using because according to her, they made writing feel like a beautiful ritual of sorts.
A few seconds later, I’m reading her words for the second time tonight.
Ben,
Some nights I feel like it’s been ages since I’ve seen you. Those nights, when the ache in my chest that calls for you grows too strong, I close my eyes and wait for the first best memory of us to surface. Know what came to me tonight?
Aberdeen.
ABERDEEN. I KNOW EXACTLY what she’s talking about, but it’s not at all the clue I was hoping for. Unless it’s meant to be literal, and the next place she wants me to go is Scotland. But I have a gnawing feeling that’s not where she means for me to travel next.
No, this letter is the opposite of literal. It’s a puzzle I’m meant to figure out, work for. Unless, I just choose to go with letter number one. Somehow, now that she’s given me this new challenge, the prospect of going to Positano doesn’t hold any interest for me. That was the easy trip. This, right here, will be a worthy one. Provided I can figure out where I’m meant to go. And there’s only one way to do that.
So, I lie back, close my eyes, and wait for it to surface.
Ky.
Me.
Aberdeen.
“BEN!” SHE SHOUTS, TWO seconds after getting out of my truck. “Come here! Quick!”
I shift back into park and kill the engine, rushing to follow her.
“Where are you?” I call out, searching the parked cars around me for her. She was headed for the bar just a few feet up the sidewalk when I dropped her off. I was all set to watch her walk up to the side door leading to her loft upstairs, when she disappeared among the parked cars and started shouting for me to come. I only looked away for a second while getting out of the truck, she can’t be that far.
“Over here!” I see her hand wave from behind a blue sedan three cars over. She must be hunched over or squatting to be so far out of sight. “Hurry!”
My heart is pounding rapidly within my chest as I move as fast as I can to maneuver my way around the cars to get to her, uncertain of what I’ll find.
“What are you doing? Are you hurt?” She’s practically laying on the concrete, face turned toward the blue sedan and hidden from my view, which only increases my anxiety.
When her head pops up, my anxiety turns instantly to aggravation. “Why would I be hurt? You think I can’t manage walking from your truck to my front door without tripping over my own two feet and falling to some sort of near death on the pavement?”
“What I think is irrelevant,” I grumble, slowly lowering myself down to meet her at her level. Whatever it is I came running over here for, is apparently near the ground. “What I think never matches up with your reality. Ever.”
She smirks. “That’s because I’m rarely attached to any level of reality. It’s too boring and rigid.” Then she flattens her body to the ground again, stretching her arm out under the vehicle beside her. “Except now. When we need to help Aberdeen, or his reality will wind up being him smushed to the concrete. And I’m not okay with that.”
Accepting the fact that asking more questions and waiting for answers I’ll understand will take longer than just having a look under the car for myself, I lower myself down until I look just as ridiculous as she does, laying splayed out in the parking lot.
“It’s a cat.” I’m starting to think I could have pieced that one together for myself if I hadn’t been so freaked out by her urgency in the beginning.
“Of course, it’s a cat. What did you think Aberdeen was? A pony? How many things are small enough to be found underneath a Honda Civic?” She stretches her arm out toward it, still unable to reach it. “He’s hurt. And scared. We have to get him out.”
I’m about to ask how she knows all this, but I catch myself and choose to investigate further on my own. It’s after two in the morning, so the only lighting we’re working with is coming from the streetlamps, and they’re not exactly shining bright under the cars. Even after my eyes adjust a bit, my night vision still isn’t what it needs to be to fully examine this situation, so I retrieve my phone for extra lighting.
“Hey buddy,” I say as calmly as I can when I’m met with wild looking eyes and a hiss at my flashlight. Aberdeen is charcoal gray from head to paw, not a single patch of white or black to be found. The only things more striking than his long, silky coat, are the lime green eyes staring back at me, warning me to keep my distance. “Why do you think he’s hurt?”
“He was limping when he ran under here to hide,” Ky explains. “His front left paw is all mangled, you just can’t see it now because he’s keeping it covered.” She tries to scoot herself a little closer, starting to move under the hood. “He needs a vet. And we can’t just wait for him to come out. I don’t know if he’s fast enough to escape a moving car right now.”
I sigh, accepting that there’s no way out of r
uining my favorite shirt tonight. I should have known better than to wear it out on a night I was crossing paths with Ky. One way or another, something unexpected always seems to happen. Even if it’s at the last minute, like it is tonight.
“Do you have a plan you want me to assist with, or are we coming up with something together?” I ask, guessing the answer will land somewhere near my first assumption.
“It’s a two-person plan,” she confirms. “But it’s more partner than assist. Think you’re up for it?”
“Let’s hear it.” I scoot back from the car until I can sit upright again. I don’t think Aberdeen is going anywhere for the moment.
Ky rolls herself onto her side so she can face me, but she never backs away from the cat, clearly unwilling to leave him alone while he’s hurt and afraid.
“Okay, here’s what I’m thinking,” she starts. “You lift the car and I scoop him out.”
God, I wish I knew for sure she was joking when she says shit like this. “Do you have a plan B?”
She grins. “I keep him calm from this side, you crawl under from the other and toss your shirt over him to grab him.”
“Why are we using my shirt?” Not that it matters at this point, but for principal sake, I’d like to know why I’m being asked to make all the sacrifices here.
“Because me being shirtless in public places is frowned upon. Take it up with the sexist jerks who set these standards.”
And now I know. “For the record, I would never frown upon you being shirtless.”
“Yes, Ben, I know.” She rolls her eyes. “You’re all about defending women’s rights. Feminist to the core, you are.” She waves her hand for me to hurry up. “Now can we do this, or what? It’s getting really uncomfortable down here. And I’m pretty sure something just crawled into my boot.”
My ankle is officially itchy now. “I’m going, I’m going.”
I make my way to the other side of the car, peeling my shirt off as I go and trying really hard to forget how much I spent on it and how few times I’ve worn it. After a second of adjusting for the best angle, I’m positioned just right to make my move. “Go ahead, I’m ready when you are.”
She nods, then begins to crawl closer to the cat from her end, quietly talking to him the entire time. When he seems to relax a bit, Ky flashes me a look and I dive for him, wrapping him in my shirt and pulling him out as fast and as carefully as I can.
Aberdeen is pissed, but thanks to my shirt, I’m spared the wrath of his attack.
“Your cat is mean,” I grumble trying to hand over the hissing bundle, but she denies it.
“Aberdeen isn’t mine.”
“I’m sorry?” I adjust my grip and fix the shirt to keep Aberdeen secure and myself safe. “Then whose is he?”
She shrugs, starting back for my truck. “I don’t think he belongs to anyone. Just hangs around the parking lot, mostly.”
“You mean this cat is feral?” That explains some things.
“I mean this cat has no one to take care of him. Except us.” She climbs into the passenger seat and finally holds out her arms. “Alright, hand him over.”
“Where are we going?”
“The emergency vet over on Howland.” Like it’s obvious. It’s not. I didn’t even know there was an emergency vet on Howland.
“You’re not worried he’s going to freak out even more if we take him for a drive now?” I look around the backseat of my truck. “Grab that box in the back. I used it the other day to drop some old VHS tapes off at my parents’. We can put the cat in it now.”
“Your parents still have a VHS player?” Figures that would be the thing she wants to discuss right now as we’re trying to trap a feral cat in a cardboard box without getting clawed to death.
“It’s the only kind of player they have at all,” I tell her, holding my shirt tight around the cat with one hand while trying to close the flap of the box with the other.
“That’s so cute.” She sounds so delighted I can’t help but feel she forgot what we’re doing here. Except she’s the one holding the box in her lap and helping me seal it as we speak.
“Your ability to compartmentalize your experiences while they’re happening simultaneously is nothing short of astounding.” I take a step back, pausing a moment to make sure our cat box is indeed as secure as is required for our drive to be successful. I can hear scratching and deep, disturbed meows coming from inside, but he seems to be contained.
“I just believe in having a well-rounded life experience, Ben. No need to only focus on an angry wounded cat threatening to kill us when there’s talk of old school video tapes happening at the same time.” She grins, eyes dropping from my face to my torso. “If it helps, I’m also making time to thoroughly enjoy your shirtless-ness. Lots of spectacular moments accumulating here and I’m pleased to be collecting them all.”
“That does help,” I grin, winking at her just before I shut the door on her and the demon cat in her lap.
The drive is fast and uneventful, but for Ky’s repeated changing of the radio stations in search of something Aberdeen will find soothing. In the end, we arrive at the emergency vet without ever finding Aberdeen’s music of choice. Mostly, I think, because he doesn’t have any.
“What’s your emergency?” a voice greets us through the intercom.
“We have a cat with an injured paw,” I call back into the square black screen.
“Okay, come in.” There’s a buzz and the lock on the door clicks, allowing me to push it open.
“After you,” I mumble, holding the door for Ky and Aberdeen to enter.
She does a weird curtsy as soon as she’s inside. “Why thank you, kind sir.” Then she spins around toward the front desk and giggles as she goes.
I just shake my head and follow her. No point in trying to make sense of this insanity at three in the morning.
“And your cat’s name?” I hear the receptionist ask just as I walk up.
“Aberdeen.” Ky doesn’t even skip a beat. Like this beast in her box is a real pet and not a feral we scraped off the pavement from under some drunk’s Honda.
“Last name?”
Do cats even have those?
“Prescott.” Again. No hesitation.
“Really? Aberdeen Prescott?” I gape at her, unable to decide if I’m offended or flattered the cat has now been named after me.
She shrugs. “Well, he is your cat.”
I almost choke on my own spit. “He’s what now?” I’m definitely offended. He’s not named after me. Apparently, we’re related.
Ky looks at me, big eyes and soft mouth taking a serious shape lacking all hint of a smile. “Isn’t he?”
I pry my eyes from her to turn toward the receptionist. She’s waiting for an answer from me too. When I don’t give her one, she says, “If you’re just here trying to unload your cat, you should know you’ll have to pay for his vet care either way. And if he’s no kitten, he’ll probably last about a week at the shelter before they put him down.”
I clear my throat. “Of course, he’s my cat. I just prefer to call him my child. He’s more like my son, really.”
Ky’s eyes sparkle with such delight, I know I topped her expectations with that one. Every once in a while, she rubs off on me so much, even I start talking crazy. I have, as of yet, been unable to determine if that’s a good thing or not.
“And how will you be paying today?” I guess we’ve given her too much reason to wonder about our reliability factor to be insulted by that.
“Visa work?” I ask, reaching into my back pocket to retrieve my wallet. Whatever this cat ends up costing me, I already know there’s no getting out of paying it. And not because Ky won’t insist on reimbursing me. I’ll just never be able to accept her money.
A few minutes later and Aberdeen is whisked away into the back room for examining and x-rays while we’re left to entertain ourselves in their small waiting area. On the upside, there’s no one around to fight over the television with and
the receptionist was kind enough to give us the remote before she took off with my new feral cat.
“I assume he’s mine because you don’t carry plastic and spent all your cash while we were out tonight?” I tease Ky quietly while I flip through the channels.
“Figures you’d do that.” She nudges me playfully. “Assume. Like an ass.” She laughs at her own joke. “He’s your cat because you live here permanently.”
“Right, of course. A pet is a commitment.” I want to chuckle at that, but I can’t. There’s too much truth in the implication of it.
“Cats are more than that,” she says quietly. “They’re good for the soul. I used to have a cat, you know? When I lived with my grandmother. Calliope. She was the best. Like a kindred spirit.”
“I’m sure you could figure out a way to keep a cat and still move around as much as you do,” I tell her, changing my tone. If I’d known she had a soft spot for cats beyond her obvious soft spot for everything, I wouldn’t have been a dick about it a moment ago.
“It wouldn’t be fair.” She sighs. “Cats should be free to explore the outdoors not caged up for six weeks in quarantine every few months just because I get antsy and want to cross another border.”
I don’t have a solution to that problem beyond the easy one. Staying put. But she’ll never do that. “I see why you relate to cats so well then,” I muse gently. “You’re kind of a cat yourself with a need to be free to explore.”
She looks up at me, smiling. “You know what else cats do?”
“Leave dead rodents on your front doorstep?”
“Come home.” She hooks her arm into mine and leans back into her chair, sliding down a little as she goes. “No matter how far they roam, they always find their way back. They always come home.”
“That why you keep showing up here?” I ask quietly. “Because it’s home?”
“It’s the closest thing I’ve got.”
“Because it was your grandmother’s.” But her grandmother isn’t here anymore. I turn over my shoulder to look at her. She’s got her head resting against the wall behind us and her eyes are closed. I think this night is finally catching up to her.