The One Who Loves You (Tickled Pink #1)(78)

I’m now laughing and coughing so hard at the same time that drool—actual, literal drool—is sliding down my chin, and I can’t wipe it off because I’m coated in litter dust.

If Jennifer’s on the Tickled Pink Papers committee and snaps a picture of me like this, at least I’ll know whose house to burn down.

Kidding.

Kidding.

But I will totally snap a picture of her midsneeze and submit it anonymously to the gossip page if I get the chance.

I try to wipe my chin with my shoulder while I’m still coughing and bump into the wall by accident.

“That’s what you get for thinking about adopting a cat,” my mother mutters—loudly—while I cough and sputter and contemplate the vodka sour I’ll need after this to cleanse my digestive system.

“I’m adopting Ziggy,” I inform her between coughs.

“You know a cat is a lifetime commitment?” Jennifer asks.

She has the most amazing hips. Tavi has curves like that, too, but she works out so much that you can’t always tell.

“Until the cat or I die, yes, Jennifer, I’m aware. Also, where do you get nondusty cat litter? I need to make a very large donation of cleaner cat litter to save you all from lung poisoning.”

“There are self-scooping litter boxes, too, if you’re rolling out the checkbook,” Bridget says.

I know I should remind her that she’s a teenager, but I love her honesty and her chutzpah. “Done.”

Jennifer winces again. “Phoebe, no offense, but no matter how much you donate to the cat shelter, even if the school passes the home check, I’m not entirely certain—”

“That I can follow through with my commitments to an animal?” Oh, hell yes, I’m utilizing the Lightly eyebrow. “I know we don’t know each other well, but the one thing you really need to know about me is that I do not fail. At anything. Including loving the shit out of a cat currently living in a—in a—”

Oh my God.

I’m choking up.

I’m choking up and I’m going to cry because the cat is not where he belongs. “—in the wrong environment.”

Mom’s gaping at me like alien earthworms or something have taken over my body.

Bridget’s eyes are shiny.

And Jennifer’s frozen in place.

I’ve broken everyone by having feelings.

Awesome.

“Phoebe, have you actually . . . touched . . . Ziggy?” Jennifer finally asks.

And there I go with the Lightly eyebrow again. It’s like my face has a mind of its own.

But I’m completely in charge of the rest of me as I dust my hands off on my pants—my thousand-dollar Valentino jeans, for the record—rise, and cross to where Bridget and Ziggy are hanging out near the cat tree that three other kittens are climbing all over.

Ziggy clearly doesn’t want to be left out of the climbing, because he’s attempting to scale Bridget’s face.

“Ziggy, would you like to go home with me?” I ask the cat.

He pauses with one paw on Bridget’s ponytail holder and another on her ear, and he meows at me.

“See?” I say triumphantly. “He wants to come home with me.”

Bridget squirms and gently grabs the cat under the ribs, tugging him off her head while he tries to pull her hair out of her ponytail. “Here, Phoebe.”

My eyes get hot again.

What if he doesn’t like me?

What if I drop him?

What if I really can’t do something as simple as care for a cat?

What if I’m making a complete and total fool of myself here?

Bridget rises. “It’s okay,” she says quietly. “He might bite. Or he might scratch you. But you’ll heal. Probably.”

“I don’t know that you’re helping,” I tell her.

She grins. “Well, yeah. Go on. Hold him for a minute. And he really might scratch or bite, but kittens sometimes do. They grow out of it.”

I hesitantly reach for the cat she’s offering. Thus far, I’ve just let the rest of them romp all over my body, and I haven’t actually picked one up.

But as soon as my hand goes under his little rib cage, he starts vibrating, and a massive purr resonates around the room. I suck in a surprised breath and pull him close to my chest.

He’s really furry.

And so tiny.

He shouldn’t feel so tiny—not next to the rest of the kittens, who are half his size—but he does.

And he’s so light. Like, even smaller than Tavi’s dog.

If I drop him—no.

No, I will not drop this cat.

He’s soft and fluffy and squirmy, and he’s trying to climb my arm. “Whoa, kitty.”

“You can squat near the ground if it makes you feel better,” Bridget tells me. “That way if he jumps, he doesn’t have as far to go.”

“But I don’t want him to jump! If he jumps, that means he doesn’t like me. Doesn’t it?”

“Cats pick their owners,” Jennifer says. “If you really want a cat, we can wait until—”

I drop to my ass on the floor as Ziggy claws his way up my arm, onto my shoulder, and then to the top of my head, his little pinprick claws digging in like mutant mosquitoes attacking my skin everywhere he climbs.