by Lily Jenkins
The cat is two blocks ahead. I’m slowing down without realizing it, my body revolting with spasms of pain and hitching breaths. “No,” I wheeze. Pete doesn’t slow down. He turns another corner, this time running along the even ground of an east-west street, and I stagger after him.
I am about ready to collapse when I finally turn the corner. What I see then almost does make me fall over, but for a completely different reason.
Sitting on the side of the street is a guy I’ve never seen before. He’s young, with brown hair and a tight white shirt and dark jeans. He’s sitting on the curb, and next to him, almost cuddling up to him, is my cat.
I’m stunned. I take this in for a moment, my shoulders heaving.
He is saying something to the cat, smiling at him, and Pete arches his back as the guy runs his hand along it. Then the cat goes up to his knee and rubs his face into it.
I blink, stupefied. I am unable to move. This must be his cat. And instead of relief, a bolt of anger rushes through me. Who is this guy? How could he let his cat out in the rain? Prickly Pete was almost run over! I want to scream at him.
Then I realize I am still in my pajamas. The guy is around my age, and—from what I can tell—has a nice build. I swallow, and just as I am thinking about turning back, he looks up at me.
We are maybe the length of two houses apart, but I can hear him clearly. “Hey!” he calls out. “Is this your cat?”
And I have no choice but to go up to him.
This has to be the weirdest morning of my life. First Levi wakes me up at dawn to bring me cereal in bed—I think he’s still wowed by a thousand bucks cash in his hand. Then, when I step out to have a moment to myself, this random cat comes up to me like it knows me. It’s an orange tabby with a white belly, and it’s a scrawny-looking thing. It races around the corner and practically jumps in my lap. I chuckle and let it sniff my fingers, then it starts rubbing its face on my legs. When I start to pet it, it purrs. I like cats. Dogs, too, and I kind of miss having a pet around.
But then things get even stranger. There’s this girl that seems to just materialize out of nowhere. She’s standing halfway down the block and looking at me. Staring. Like one of those kids raised by wolves that has never seen another human before. I can’t really make out her expression, but she has a wild look about her.
And she’s wearing pajamas. These pink, girly things and… Are those slippers?
“Hey!” I call out. “Is this your cat?”
At once she starts marching over, and the fierceness of her walk almost makes me regret making contact. That is, until she’s about three steps away and I can see her up close.
She’s a knockout, even in her stupid little-girl pajamas. And that’s saying something. She’s got soft features, a straight nose and clean, wide eyes, like one of those Hollywood movie stars from a hundred years ago. Her hair is auburn, and all messed up but still kind of hot. She’s sweaty, too. And I think automatically: I bet that’s how she looks after a hot fuck.
She stands before me with her hands on her hips. I go on stroking the cat, waiting for her to answer. She seems confused by the situation, and when she gets close enough to see me, I can see her start to blush.
“So…” I say, scratching the cat behind its ears. “Is this guy yours?”
The girl lifts her chin. “Yes,” she says primly. “His name is Prickly Pete.” She keeps her eyes on me a moment too long, and then seems to realize it. She looks at the cat and bends down to it, her arms shooting out to pick it up. She barely touches the cat when it arches defensively and hisses at her, the look in the animal’s eyes so vicious that I scoot away myself.
The girl doesn’t seem to have the basics of cat language down though, because she ignores the hissing and tries to pick it up anyway. Before she can get both hands around its middle, the cat swipes at her so fast I can’t even warn her to watch out. There’s the swipe and a snarl and the girl jumps back. I look up, and see her look down at her forearm in shock. A long, three-pronged scratch is there.
The girl sucks in air between her teeth. “Ouch.”
Then she looks back down at the cat, as if deciding something. Meanwhile, the cat has gone back to me, stepping behind me and pressing its head against my back, cuddling against me.
“Looks like your cat doesn’t like you,” I say, and I can’t help it: I laugh a bit. “You’re lucky it’s only a scratch though. Bites can get infected.”
When the girl blushes, I laugh a bit more.
“It’s not really my cat,” she says quietly. “I found him.”
I look at her, my laughter subsiding, and give her my full attention. She’s pretty goddamn beautiful. I wonder if she’s wearing anything under that top.
“In the rain,” she continues. “And I let him stay with me overnight, and then he got out this morning. I—I had to chase after him.”
I look back at the cat behind me. “He’s got a collar,” I say. Then I look to see if there’s any sort of ID or label on it. “Collar’s got no tags,” I say. “Other than his name.”
When I look at the girl again, she seems amazed that I’m able to touch the cat.
“He won’t let me get near him,” she says. “I thought—well, I thought he might be feral. Even with the collar. I just didn’t want to see him run over.”
I nod, still petting the cat. It starts to purr, and the girl scoffs.
“Well, he seems to like you.” She’s quiet for a moment. “Do you live here?”
“Sort of. I’m staying with a friend. He got me a job at Watson’s.”
“Watson’s?”
“Yeah. Watson’s Motorcycle Repair.”
She takes this in, her mind working. Then she asks, “Do you want a cat?”
My smile drops. “I—I can’t take care of an animal.” Now it’s my turn to feel awkward. “It’s too much responsibility.”
It’s the truth and a lie at the same time.
“Too much responsibility?” she scoffs. “Cats take care of themselves.”
“I can’t,” I repeat. And then I have to tell her why. “I’m not staying in Astoria. I’ll be gone by the end of the summer, and I can’t take a cat with me.”
The girl seems disappointed, both in my refusal and my reason. But she’ll just have to get over that. It’s not going to change.
“Okay,” she says. “I guess I’ll take him back then.” She looks down at the cat, and one look from her sends the cat into defense mode again. Its ears go flat, and I can just feel the negative energy coming off of it. The girl drops her hands. “Maybe I should get a carrier or something.” She bites her finger and I notice her lips. I lick my own before I realize I’ve done it. Then she looks down at me again. “Do you mind watching Pete while I run to the pet store?” Then she stomps her foot. “Shit. I don’t have my wallet. I can run home and get it and then go…” She looks back at me.
“I start work in half an hour,” I tell her. “I’d call in, but it’s kind of my first day.”
Her face drops. She looks like she’s about to cry for a moment, and then her face tenses, as if she’s telling herself not to be so weak.
“Listen,” I say. “How about this: How about I take the cat back to your place? No carrier necessary.”
She blinks. “Sure, I guess. If it’s not too far.”
I laugh. “Is it far? Did you hitch a ride on the interstate like that?”
She blushes so deeply I worry she’s going to burst a capillary. “Just a few blocks,” she mumbles.
“Great,” I say, and stand up.
There’s a look of awe mixed with fear when I do this. I know I look tough in general, but when I stand, I’m a good foot taller than this girl. I’m dressed in a clean shirt, but I hardly look like someone she could defend herself against, and I’m sure all her stranger-danger alarms are going off right now.
“I’m Adam,” I say, and hold out my hand.
“Erica,” she says, and shakes it.
The gesture is a
bit awkward, but it relieves some of the tension in her face. And I’m able to ask the next question without feeling like a perv.
“So, Erica, where do you live?”
“This way.”
I pick up the cat and we walk along the block. She’s leading, looking back nervously every few steps. The sidewalk widens and she slows down to walk next me. I try to catch glimpses of her without being too obvious, but she keeps looking away. Meanwhile, the cat is digging its claws into my chest. We got to get this thing a nail clipper, fast.
After a few blocks she’s starting to loosen up a bit in her posture, and when we get to a corner she says almost apologetically, “It’s pretty much all uphill from here.”
“No problem,” I say, although two blocks later my thighs are killing me. We walk in silence. I’m not sure what to say without seeming like a creep, and she seems intent on not making eye contact either way. I don’t know if she’s just embarrassed about the way she’s dressed, or if she’s antisocial, or what.
“It’s on this block,” she says after a bit, and we turn onto a street that doesn’t have an incline. I look up and down the row of houses, and I raise my eyebrows in appreciation. “Nice,” I say.
She looks back at me, almost distractedly, and says, “Yeah.” She’s looking up ahead now, her face filled with a nervous twitchiness, and I don’t really get what’s going wrong. Does she think I’m going to follow her inside and try something?
We stop outside this two-story Victorian house. The only word I can think of to describe it is “grand.” I’ve already noticed that everything in this town looks straight out of some movie, and I’m unable to picture what it must be like to actually live in such a place, to have such a perfect life. We stop in the street at the end of her driveway and I notice a woman sitting on the porch. Must be her mom. I raise a hand to wave at her, but the woman doesn’t even turn in my direction. I turn to Erica for explanation, but she turns away from the house with this look of shame on her face.
Then she walks up to the house like an intruder.
“Um,” she says, not able to meet my eyes, “the garage is over here.”
And I get it. In a flash. From the way she walks, to her avoidance of the woman on the porch, even to her need for some stray cat that hates her: this girl does not have a home. Oh, sure, she’s got a house. A nice one too. But she knows she doesn’t belong here. She knows it isn’t safe.
I know what that’s like. But I don’t say anything. I tell myself it’s none of my business.
The garage is already open, and I walk the cat up the driveway. I stop at the edge of the garage, not sure if the girl wants me to go inside.
“I guess just set him up here,” she says and walks in front of me into the garage. She stands at the back, by an interior door, and keeps a good distance between herself and me. I look back down at the cat.
It looks at me with green eyes. Then it presses its face against my chest, and slowly blinks its eyes. “Come on, guy,” I tell it. “Let’s go inside.”
I walk into the garage and stand in the center. I see an empty tuna can on the side by some old boxes. The girl’s standing by the door, watching intently.
“You got him?” she asks. I nod, and she nods back. “Okay. I’m going to close the garage.”
She presses a button and the automatic opener whirs into action. The cat looks up and I stroke its neck. It closes its eyes and starts to purr just as the garage door closes.
Once it’s shut, I place the cat on the ground, holding my hands gently around his middle, feeling his ribs through his warm fur. The cat walks away toward a pile of boxes, and I look up at the girl, at Erica. She’s looking back at me, and I almost can’t breathe there’s so much tension in the air.
I’m in her space. We are alone. And she’s standing there, looking at me, and it starts to get me a bit hard looking at the bits of skin—her neck and collarbones—that are exposed under her pajamas.
She’s the first one to talk. “I guess you have to get to work,” she says. I nod, and she says, “Come on. You’ll have to go through the house.”
She opens the door behind her and walks inside, waiting for me to follow.
This is the second new house that I’ve been inside in two days, and I’m struck by the difference between the two. While Levi’s house is messy and cluttered and lived-in, this house is the exact opposite. It feels very bare. There’s furniture and all, but there’s something about it, something that feels missing. We pass through a dark hallway to a big room connected to a kitchen. The tables are perfectly clean and the light from the window seems cold somehow. I don’t believe in hauntings or ghosts or any of that, but I’m getting chills as we pass through the entryway and back to the porch. There’s something too quiet, too perfect about this space. It’s like the people aren’t really living here at all. Like they’re dead already.
Erica walks by the older woman on the patio without stopping. I glance at the woman as I pass, but she doesn’t seem to notice me. She’s just looking out into the distance with these sad, empty eyes. I glance in the direction she’s facing: it’s a panoramic view of the river. But there’s nothing I see to explain her expression. And since Erica doesn’t stop, I have to keep walking.
Erica stops at the base of the driveway, facing away from the house again. I am looking at her perhaps a little too closely now, more curious about her after seeing where she lives. I don’t get it at all. I feel like there’s so much she’s not telling me. And I know that I’m a stranger and all, but I get this sense that it’s not just me—she wouldn’t really open up even if I were her best friend. Yet at the same time, there’s something going on that she desperately needs to talk about.
I don’t know. It’s just a feeling.
“Well,” she says, and she smiles. Or tries to smile. It doesn’t fool me. “Thank you for helping me with Pete.”
“No problem,” I say, and she looks at me, meeting my eyes. She holds her gaze as if she’s noticing me for the first time.
There’s this instant where I have an opportunity to find out more about her, to ask her some questions. Perhaps get her number. I can tell she’s sort of not saying anything to give me that opening. Her eyes are screaming that she wants to talk.
But I can’t. I look away and it hurts. I want to find out what’s making her miserable, I want to help protect her from it, but I can’t. I remind myself that I can’t. I’m leaving. I can’t help anyone. There’s no use in trying.
Even when I meet someone like her that makes me want to break all my rules.
“I’d better get to work,” I say.
She stares at me a moment and then says, “Okay.”
There’s another awkward moment, that space to get to know each other.
Only it’s more than a space. It’s almost a force between us, like a rubber band pulling us toward each other. There are times in life where two people meet and it is obvious at once to both that they’d get along. This is like that, times ten.
I use all my willpower to ignore it.
“All right,” I say, and give a false smile. “See you around.”
She can’t say anything. She only nods. And I have to turn quickly to leave, have to rush to the end of the block and get her out of sight. Otherwise I might not be able to move on. I might not be able to resist.
And that would be bad for both of us.
I watch him walk away, and I’m surprised to find a part of myself shouting, “No! No! Don’t let him go!” But I ignore this part, and turn back inside.
I pass my mother on the porch and feel disgusted with her. Why does she have to be so embarrassing? I close the door behind me, head upstairs and start the shower. I catch a look at myself in the mirror and want to slap myself for being so stupid as to leave the house in this condition.
I look awful. And, to be honest, I’ve looked pretty bad this past year. But this is the first time that I’ve cared.
I peel off my pajamas and throw them on the
floor. Then I get into the hot spray of the shower and let it wash away some of the anxiety I’m feeling.
I love showers. I love showers the way some people like warm beds in the morning. I never want to leave. If it were possible, I’d stay in the shower all day. It’s so simple, so easy and comforting.
And thoughts seem safer in the shower. Only here, in absolute privacy, do I feel comfortable enough to think about the guy I just met. Adam.
At the thought of his name, I picture his face. He’s what Nicole would call a “hottie.” I roll my eyes at my own use of the expression, but I guess I don’t really have my own words for when I find guys attractive.
And it’s not even that I find him that attractive. I mean, there are good-looking guys everywhere. It’s more that I keep seeing his face in my mind, keep replaying all the little gestures and expressions he made.
I like his eyebrows. I know that’s a weird feature to like, but they complement his eyes very well. They’re dark and thick, and give him a sort of mean, brooding quality. He has dark hair too, that he wears messy. Not punk messy, not like that, just—again, I lack the vocabulary. He had nice hair. It made me want to touch it and run my hands through it.
I involuntarily gasp at the thought. What is wrong with you, Erica? Don’t you have any self-control? You’re acting like a schoolgirl.
But I feel like a schoolgirl. I remember the way he had this sort of smile-sneer, lifting up the left side of his lip and exposing just the hint of his teeth underneath. His lips are pink and soft looking. And then at the end, his eyes—his dark, moody eyes—the way they looked at me with such—longing? Was that what it was? It was like he wanted to stay and talk.
Then why didn’t he? Why did he leave?
My entire body feels heavy, and it takes me a moment to translate this heaviness into the thought behind it: it’s the realization that I may never see him again. The one person that I felt this strange, unexplainable connection to, and I’ll never see him again.
With this disappointing bit of reality, I turn off the shower and start drying my hair.