One of the many reasons I love Cat is because she is herself, through and through. There is no mistaking who she is. She’s utterly incapable of pretending to be someone she’s not. She is unwilling—and maybe even unable to bend or soften around others. She’s strong and centered. Not a bitch.
But it didn’t matter because eventually, Trey found fault not just with Cat but withallmy friends and methodically began to isolate me from each one of them. None of them were good enough for me. For us.
Voicemail kicks in, and I hang up and give Cat a minute before I call back. It’s the procedure. Cat has to fish the phone from her glove box. It always takes two calls. One is the warning call. If she doesn’t answer on the second call, specifically on the third ring, I don’t call again that day. And if it happens again that week, I don’t call again. Even though that’s the rule we agreed upon, I’m not sure I could stick by it if I had to. Not only would I worry and wonder what was going on, but I miss Catdesperately. I miss her constancy. I miss her telling me what’s what. I miss her humungous hugs.
“You’re late.” I can hear the traffic noise in the background. Chicago. Commute time. Because it’s always commute time in Chicago. Who would think I’d miss Chicago traffic? But I missed it with every cell in my body because Cat is there. She yawns. “Sorry. Still waking up.”
“Are you okay?”
Another yawn.
“How’s Aunt Birdie?” I ask, pulling out the pastry bag from my satchel. I stick my hand in the bag, and pinch off a nibble of cinnamon bun.
“Exactly the same. She happened to mention that the bulbs the two of you planted are in full bloom.”
Sadness catches deep in my throat as I think about when Aunt Birdie and I planted those bulbs years ago, one dreary,wet, cold day. “We plant them now, Honey, right here where it is the perfect spot for them, so that they’ll brighten come spring,” she had said. “You’ve got to think ahead in gardening and love.”
“What’s it like there? Is it hot?” Cat asks.
“Cold as shit,” I lie. She knows I won’t give her clues to my location.
“Shit isn’t usually cold. FYI.” Cat’s blinkertick, tick, tickslike a bomb ticking off seconds until the blast. “Unless you’re in the arctic and you have an outdoor latrine. I hope for your sake that’s not the case. If so, don’t get frostbite on your behind.”
“You know I want to tell you everything about where I am and what I’m doing.”
“I know.” She puffs out a sigh. “Was your morning good so far? You can tell me that.”
I think about the coffee disaster. Not good. But she’d think the story was hilarious. I want to tell her how Cowboy Boots reminded me of my first crush until I got up close and he was five times as handsome but infinitely more annoying. And how I found a little piece of paradise to cherish, at least just for right now, and it seems like no one else in the world knows about it.
But I don’t. Because talking about my days—even the most minor details—leaves the conversation wide open for information slips. If she finds out where I am, there’s a high chance that she’ll pack up and come to me.
“I know you can’t tell me the details, sweet girl. That’s okay, though. I’ll make up stuff in my head instead. Good stuff.” After a pause, she asks, “Did you makeanyfriends there?” I feel like I’m in middle school again, when Mom kept moving me from one ballet academy to another to find the perfect one that would push me hard enough to become a prima ballerina.
“Yes. In fact, I’ve got the perfect friend here. He loves my cooking, he listens to me all day long without complaining, he’s snuggly in bed,andhe loves to be brushed.”
She’s quiet for a moment then barks out a laugh. “Leave it to you to be running from a psycho ex-boyfriend and somehow you’ve acquired a dog?”
“I can’t make human friends here, Cat. It’s too hard. I can’t really talk to anyone because I might let something slip. You know I can’t keep my mouth shut for long.”
“That must be painful for you. You always did love to talk.”
“You’renever at a loss for words either.”
“Our verbosity is genetic. Gran used to talk nonstop.”
“Gramps said she could talk off all the ears in the cornfield.” I say.
“You know, youarecapable of not talking.” I hear her take a sip of something. Probably coffee. Which I still haven’t had yet. “There was that one time you fell off that horse, and they wired your jaw closed, and you had to mumble everything.”
“Don’t remind me. That was torture. I can’t look at a jar of peanut butter after all those peanut butter, banana, and chocolate protein shakes Mom made me drink.” I take another little nibble of the cinnamon bun then wrap it back up so I can take the time to enjoy it later. “I can’t look at horses either without shuddering. This guy with a cowboy hat and boots was trying to chat me up today. Formanyreasons, I did not want to talk to him. He offered me a—” I shut my errant mouth because it’s aching to tell the whole story, from beginning to end, to Cat.
“He offered youa what?” Her voice is hard.
“Relax, Cat. I shouldn’t have said anything. Never mind.”
“Just tell me what the hell he offered.”
“A ride. In his pickup.”
