Love in the Time of Serial Killers(56)

“So, neighbors who hook up.”

“Exactly,” I said. “It’s like friends with benefits, but less of a commute.”

I was ready to put this plan into action right there, right then, but I could tell that Sam was still thinking about it, turning something over in his head. Then there was his poor forgotten sandwich on the table, and I already felt bad for the way this day had gone after last night had been so perfect.

“Look,” I said, “no matter what, we can still be friends, right? Conner invited me to this Fourth of July fireworks thing—he’s actually going to propose to Shani that night, but you didn’t hear it from me—and you should totally come if you don’t already have plans. What do you say?”

Sam ran his hand through his hair. “I may have something,” he said, in a way that made me think he didn’t. “Can I let you know?”

“Sure,” I said, trying not to feel hurt. Fourth of July was pretty much the worst holiday, anyway. I hated fireworks and unquestioning patriotism. And I couldn’t blame him for not being super psyched to spend time with the woman who’d bailed on him this morning. “We can keep it casual.”

He gave a little laugh, more an exhalation of air than an actual sound of humor. “I think that’s where we have a disconnect,” he said. “But I’ll let you know.”



* * *





?WHEN I GOT back to my house, I plopped down on my bed, both because I was still tired and because I was running out of places to relax in this place. I had completely forgotten about Lenore under the bed until she came out, meowing at me from the floor. She eyed me warily and then leapt up onto my stomach, her small paws starting to knead at my T-shirt.

“What is that?” I asked her. “What are you doing?”

I wished I could reach the cat book from the library, so I could look up what this behavior meant. I assumed it wasn’t an act of aggression, because she didn’t seem tense. She’d started to purr, actually, and licking the spot where she’d been kneading. I could feel the roughness of her tongue through the damp fabric.

Was she trying to nurse on me?

“This is a little weird,” I said. “Not gonna lie.”

But I let her keep doing it, because it seemed to make her happy. I reached out an experimental hand to give her a single stroke down the length of her back. She startled a little, as though not sure she liked it, and then went back to sucking on my shirt. Eventually, I was able to rest my hand on the top of her head, giving her a few firm pets that she didn’t seem to mind as much.

“You’re probably riddled with fleas,” I said. “And I bet you go through people’s garbage, don’t you, you dirty trash cat. I’m going to call you DTC instead of Lenore.”

She didn’t seem bothered by the name change at all, just continuing her disgusting and a little endearing licking of my shirt. But I immediately felt bad, and had to correct the record. “I won’t really,” I said. “And I mean dirty trash cat with the utmost respect for your time on the streets. I’m just saying, we need to get you to the vet and get you cleaned up a bit.”

I reached into my pocket for my phone, snapping a quick picture of Lenore that came out like a smudge of black on top of me. Still, I hoped Alison would understand what she was looking at as I sent it over to her. Her reply came back in minutes.

So cute!!!! Glad you decided to keep her.

I ran my fingers over my phone screen, feeling the jagged edge of one of the cracks. I sent my response back before I could second-guess myself too hard. Have no idea what I’m doing. Would you be able to meet up with me sometime after work to help me buy supplies?

If she said no, I wouldn’t be offended. She was probably really busy, between work and the lure of another Epcot food festival or whatever else it was that got Disney people all riled up. And I could probably figure out what to buy on my own—there may even be a list of suggested items in the library book. As soon as Lenore stopped doing her bizarre licking and kneading thing, I’d get up and check. My shirt was already soaked through.

But Alison’s reply came back with a gif that made me laugh, of Mr. Burns steepling his fingers together. I’d forgotten just how much Simpsons we’d watched in middle school. She said it was her day off, and could I meet her at the pet store next to the old Dunkin’ Donuts, the one that had the pink elephant and red camel statues out front?

I surprised myself by knowing exactly the place she was talking about.





SEVENTEEN





ALISON TRIED TO explain to me some nuances of cat ownership as we stocked up on basic supplies—litter box, food, cat carrier—but it was hard to stay focused when I kept thinking about how I’d left things with Sam. Alison even had to take my phone from me and finish making the vet appointment, because I kept stuttering and stammering over basic information like how old did I think the cat was and what was the best number where they could reach me.

“Hey,” she said after she’d hung up and handed me my phone back. “You can do this. I promise it’s not hard. Cats are fairly low-maintenance, except when they’re vomiting up hairballs or knocking over your drink. Want me to go to the vet with you?”

“You’ve already done too much,” I said, when really I wanted to say, Yes, thank god, please help me because I’m drowning here. “But let me buy you a coffee, at least, if you think we have time before that cat destroys the entire house.”