“Thanks, Ivy. You’re the best.” He lifts it, about to take a sip, his eyes on me.
Before he can answer, Mr. Pickles darts into the kitchen and jumps onto Drew’s shoulder. He screams and drops the mug. Ivy’s close enough to grab it before it tips over.
“Aw. He’s welcoming you home,” she says with a smile.
Meanwhile, Drew completely loses it. He jumps up, arms flailing like he’s trying to knock a bat from his hair. Mr. Pickles has his claws dug into his button-down, holding on for dear life. He flicks his tail, clearly not happy with my brother’s antics, smacking him in the face.
“Help. Your Demon Cat’s trying to kill me,” he cries. His hand bumps Mr. Pickles, who digs in as he slides. There’s a ripping sound before the cat lets out a pissed-off meow and lands on the kitchen table.
He hisses at Drew, then stalks to me. He leaps, and I catch him, cradling him in my arms.
“He ripped my shirt!” Drew yells, eyes wide.
“I’ll buy you another one.” I scratch Mr. Pickles’s ears, and he purrs.
“He didn’t mean to. He was just trying to hang on,” Ivy says, defending our cat. “He was trying to sit on your shoulder. That means he likes you.”
“Likes me?” Drew sputters. “He spends half his time plotting my death.”
“You’re overreacting,” I calmly say. “Look at him. Does he look vicious?”
“No, cause you’re holding him,” Drew mutters. “Normally, yes. He looks at me with those demon eyes?—”
“Maybe if you didn’t call him demon eyes or Satan’s spawn,” Ivy suggests helpfully.
My brother shakes his head. “I live in an insane asylum.”
“Don’t like it, move out.” My voice is calm and rational. I don’t mind Drew living here. In fact, I’ve gotten used to it. But if it’s between my cat and him, he’s not going to like the choice I make.
He blows out a breath, finally calming down. “Choosing a cat over your own brother.” He shakes his head. “What happened to family loyalty?”
“I’m very loyal.” I set Mr. Pickles on the chair so I can flip the pancakes. “He’s my family, too.” I give him a quick scratch behind the ears. “Aren’t you?” I coo.
Drew stares at me like I’ve lost my mind. I ignore him and concentrate on the pancakes.
Ivy is still giggling. “Mornings are always eventful around here.”
I smile at her before giving her a quick peck on the lips. “You know it.”
My brother pretends to gag behind me. I flip him the middle finger. “Keep it up and you won’t get any breakfast.”
He slides back into the chair, his eyes on the cat. “I’ll behave.”
Ivy and I exchange a grin.
“That’s what I thought,” I say with a grin.
I don’t believein coincidences. I believe in systems. Cause and effect. Predictable inputs producingpredictable outcomes. It’s how I’ve lived my life—controlled, contained, and manageable.
Which is why I immediately notice the porch light is on when I get home from work. At noon on a bright, sunny day.
Yeah, I left work early. But since I’ve been a workaholic for so long, no one said anything. I wouldn’t have cared if they did. It wouldn’t change the outcome.
I stare at it like it might explain itself if I give it enough time. I never leave that light on. Light draws attention. Attention invites people who think they’re welcome to knock on my door.
I stand in front of the light longer than necessary, cataloging possibilities.
Ivy could have turned it on this morning and forgotten to turn it off. She cooks, cleans, and rearranges things without realizing she’s doing it. She may have gotten distracted.
