Then suddenly the threat was more of an invitation.
A lifeline.
I’m a handful for most, he said. Aren’t I, too?
My ex would agree. TJ Handful McPherson. Neurotic. Twitchy. Overthinker. Perpetually restless. An unhandy handful.
Then I was out of bed, standing at the window like Rapunzel with no handsome prince at the ground. Just a phone in one hand.
And a number scribbled on the other.
Austin…
A car drifts by the coffee shop window, bringing me out of my thoughts. I keep thinking I see him down the street. Then it’s just someone else. I check my phone again, wondering if he’ll cancel last minute. I chose a barstool seat by the window with the long shelf-like table in front of it, which I didn’t recognize upon coming in. Chatty Cat must have done some renovating over the years, the place spruced up and fancier than I remember.
That’s who owns the place. She’s called Chatty Cat.
That’s not her actual name, obviously.
Where the hell is he?
My impatience wins, and I finally leave my not-hot chocolate untouched, snatch the hat, and poke my head outside.
And there he is, in front of the building next-door.
Crouched by the curb.
Having a conversation with an actual cat.
Whatever sweet nothings he’s saying are too quiet to make out. (Not that I could hear them anyway with that dang car alarm a street over that someone needs to do something about.) The cat doesn’t seem impressed by him yet, keeping away, but Austin is patient, hugging his knees while he talks to it. Oratit.
Crouched low, his jeans ride down just enough to reveal the waistband of his underwear, his t-shirt not quite meeting them. The fabric clings to the tapered sweep of his back muscles as his arms drape over his knees, muscles standing out in the afternoon sunlight with a faint glow of sweat. He’s wearing a different hat today, tipped just enough to shadow most of his handsome face, leaving only the suggestion of a smirk.
Despite all the effortless efforts his good looks put into trying to captivate me, they’re upstaged entirely by the tender, innocent way he interacts with the cat. No audience. No performance. Just him connecting with this flea-ridden stray like it’s his only friend. All his beauty comes secondary. All his swagger, a mere footnote in the chapter of his sweetness.
He extends a finger. Not as if he feels entitled to pet it. Just an offering.
The cat doesn’t come any closer, still too wary, but the finger is certainly acknowledged with restrained curiosity.
Some things take time.
Trust, most of all.
He’s still murmuring to it, completely engrossed. The cat is, too, so much so that I swear it understands him. I wonder what the heck he’s saying.
“Is she winning the argument?” I ask.
Austin looks up, startled.
The cat bolts, all the trust they’ve built, shattered apart at my intrusion. Austin watches it dart down the road and vanish into the bushes, gone.
“Oops,” I mumble.
Austin rises, brushes off his thighs, and shrugs. “She was late for work, had to jet. Cats and their busy schedules, y’know, always on the run.” He pockets his hands and starts toward me.
I realize only now I’ve never properly seem him walk. It’s less of a walk. More a slinky strut. It’s a worn-jeans-and-boots catwalk, like he’s got an audience, full of modest bravado. I can’t look away.
He stops right in front of me. “Nice to see you again, T.”