“—sure? Because I can easily?—”
“I’m going alone! Seriously!”
The jackhammer starts again, aggressive and perfectly timed, because apparently even municipal construction has joined the campaign to ruin my life.
“—okay, well— Handle it, then?—”
“Yeah, I will,” I say, though not sure what exactly she was asking.
“—gotta go, got a meeting. Love you!” The line goes dead.
The jackhammer stops, and a seagull screams into the silence with deeply irritating timing.
I pocket the phone, pick up the pace, and try to stop hearing Nina’s fake-Brody voice saying,Sweetheart, I’d fight your ex and do the chicken dance at the same time.
The rest of the afternoon disappears into writing. The focaccia chapter takes shape, Nana’s story about burning three loaves in a row the summer Grandpa painted the fence shirtless, and I’m choosing not to examine why that particular memory speaks to me right now. By evening, I’ve eaten leftover pasta, washed up, changed into sleep shorts and a tank top, and settled on the couch when I hear a sound outside the front door.
A soft thud. Then scratching.
If it’s Brody leaving cookies again, I can catch him and then talk. Maybe not do the shoulder thing Nina demonstrated, but at least form words in his presence without forgetting how sentences work.
I open the door. There’s nothing there, just the dark porch, cool night air, and a large white cat sitting on my lawn, staring at the street.
“Damien? Did you get out?”
I glance at Brody’s house. Lights on inside, curtains half drawn, door shut.
The cat trills and trots into the front flower bed with the confidence of a creature who answers to absolutely no one.
“Hey. No. Come back here.”
I slide into my flip-flops and step outside just as the cat heads for the road.
“Damien, you crazy cat?—”
I chase him across two front yards and around a hedge until I lunge and scoop him up with both hands. He twists away, attempting to escape, hind legs kicking, wrestling against my grip with surprising force for an animal made primarily of fluff.
“You were so cuddly last time! What happened? Am I not good enough for you without the sun lounger and the grapes?”
He writhes harder. His back claws catch my forearm, and I wince.
“Are you sneaking out to find a lady friend? Is that what this is? Does Brody know you’re out here prowling the streets at night?”
The cat releases a yowl so dramatic it bounces off the houses.
“Fine. Home. Now.”
I march to Brody’s front door, gripping a furious white cat against my chest, and ring the bell with my elbow.
Footsteps. A lock.
The door opens, and Brody is standing there in gray joggers and a black T-shirt stretched across his biceps. His dark hair is damp and pushed back, towel over one shoulder, and my brain does a brief, unhelpful shutdown at how hot he looks.
Except, tucked under his other arm, pristine and calm in a blue vest with tiny anchors, is Damien.
We both stare at the two white cats.
“Oh.” Brody’s mouth curves. “You got a cat. Just had to match mine, huh?”