The One Who Loves You (Tickled Pink #1)(79)

Bridget cracks up and pulls out her phone. “Hold just like that, Phoebe. I have to send this to the Tickled Pink Papers.”

“It’s you! You’re the one who keeps—ah! ”

I reach for Ziggy, who’s wobbling on my head like it’s a beach ball floating in a pool and he can’t find his balance.

“She’s not very maternal, is she?” my mom murmurs to Jennifer.

“Not exactly her fault she started at a disadvantage there, is it?” Bridget fires back.

“Bridget,” Teague suddenly says from the doorway in that super hot, super displeased, disciplinarian dad voice, making all of us jump, which makes Ziggy fall off my head.

“Ziggy!” I shriek.

The kitten squats on all fours and shrinks back, and I clap my hand to my mouth again. “I’m not yelling,” I whisper to him. “I’m worried about you.”

He shakes his little head and prances off to leap onto Fluffball, who executes a ninja roll and pounces right back, making Ziggy rear back and run away.

I haven’t been chosen.

He doesn’t want me.

“At least the cat has some sense,” my mother mutters.

“I think the cat has basic instinctive needs to be a cat,” Bridget replies. “Don’t take it personally, Phoebe. If he’s not supposed to be your cat, he’s actually saving you a lot of heartache in not leading you on first.”

“Are you sure you’re fifteen?”

“Sometimes I think I’m a time traveler who got caught wrong in the space-time continuum, and it gave me a concussion when I was dropped into this body, but one day soon, I’ll wake up with my full memory intact and the knowledge of how to return to my home planet.”

I look at Teague, who’s smiling at his daughter like she’s the very light of his life, and I realize, once again, just how insignificant I am.

“If you want your sushi while it’s fresh, you’ll get it in gear,” he tells her. “Also, apologize to Mrs. Lightly. You’re being mouthy again.”

“Sushi?” The desperation in Mom’s voice is evident, and I can’t blame her.

“Sushi?” Yeah. Mine’s the same. I would give my left kneecap for good sushi.

Teague nods. “Fresh caught out of Deer Drop Lake this morning. Bluegill and trout.”

Mom rears back in horror so fast that we can hear her back crack, which scares the four closest kitties, who scatter like my ex-boyfriends when my grandmother walks into a room. Elmo leaps onto the table, lands on Mom’s tarot deck, and pushes the cards off one by one while he tries to scramble away.

“My cards!” she shrieks.

“Make sure he doesn’t pee!” Jennifer shrieks.

But it’s too late.

Elmo is peeing all over the table and Mom’s scattered tarot cards.

And Mom.

She lifts her gaze to me as the kitten lets loose, and the utter horror on her face makes me forget all about the little digs.

She doesn’t belong here.

She’s not adaptable. She’s not flexible. She has the friends she wants to have back in New York, and she’s completely isolated and missing them.

And her brunch dates. And her spa appointments. And probably some of her business stuff too.

She’s made a few sketches of new design ideas, but she’s been complaining for a few months that she’s just not as inspired as she used to be.

And that, as much as anything, makes me mad all over again that Gigi demanded we all be here.

Who is she to tell us who needs to be a better person?

The only person she should be in charge of is herself.

Teague’s moving swiftly through the room, coming to play savior to my mother, who looks on the verge of tears.

Bridget’s staring in abject fascination at all of it.

And Jennifer looks like she wants to go hide in another county.

“She has seventeen more sets of cards at home,” I murmur to the shelter manager.

“Phoebe.”

I’m Pavlov’s dog, and Teague’s voice saying my name is my bell. I don’t think. I don’t pause. I just turn.

“Hold this.”

My hands go out, and suddenly I’m holding Elmo.

He’s a little black-and-white bundle of softness, and just like Ziggy, he instantly starts purring.

But unlike Ziggy, when I pull him to my chest, he hooks a claw into my Pink Gold commemorative T-shirt right above my breast and holds on.

Bridget’s shoving paper towels at Teague, who’s attacking the cat’s mess as though it’ll burn the building down if he doesn’t. Jennifer’s hustling over with a garbage can.

Mom’s standing helplessly on the other side of the table, letting everyone else do the work while she plays the ultimate victim.

And this little ball of black-and-white fluff vibrates against my chest while I softly stroke his fur with my free hand.

“Hi,” I whisper.

He lifts his little gray-green eyes to study me, then rubs his face on my shirt.

“Phoebe,” Bridget suddenly whispers. “I think you’ve been chosen.”

There go the blowtorches behind my eyes again. I blink hard to get it under control, which makes me mad.

“Oh, Phoebe, surely not,” my mom says.