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“Yeah. Plants get in the way. Except for the thornbushes, of course.”
His whiskers twitch. “What about around back of the house? Did you dig traps there too?”
I shake my head. “I mean to. I need to. Just haven’t had the time or the energy. I dug these in the front and then focused on weapons instead.”
“It’s a lot of work,” he agrees. “You want me to help you with it? With digging more pit traps?”
He wants to help me reinforce my home? I know I look like an absolute psychopath as it is with glass studding the windowsills and pit traps and weapons within reach everywhere. I know that. It’s just…I can’t sit on an open prairie in a house with no defenses and just hope for the best. Not after what I went through. It feels like I have a bit of control with every weapon I make. It feels like I’m taking charge of my own destiny when I carve out a new pit, or add a new concept to my homemade arsenal. I know it’s another way of coping, but there’s also no one to tell me no. So I do it and it gets me through the day.
It never occurred to me to ask for help. Or that someone would offer. I cross my arms under my chest and hunch my shoulders, as if bracing myself against the implications if I say yes. “Maybe at some point.”
Jrrru nods, his triangular ears flicking, and I can’t help but notice that even though one ear is studded with earrings, they don’t make a sound even when his ears move and swivel, as they frequently do. He’s got a few rings on his tail, too, but they’re more like cuffs. Not that I should notice these things about him.
I’m also reminded of his nipple piercings, too. He’s a guy that likes bling. Flash. Probably loves a good time, too.
I have no idea what he’s doing here on this boring farm planet. Something tells me he doesn’t know, either.
Jrrru glances around, then gestures at the box of sweetener on my doorstep. “Well, that’s for you.”
I nod, and I realize he’s about to leave. For some reason, I don’t want him to.
“You know where to find me if you need help with the pit traps—“
“Seeds,” I blurt out, saying the first thing that comes to mind. “I need more seeds. If you’re going into town again soon, that is.”
That strange, toothy smile of his crawls across his feline face. “Every day. You need seeds?” When I nod mutely, his smile grows broader. “I can do that for you, Tabitha.”
I like that he remembers that I’m Tabitha. Not Tab or Tabby. I like that he pays attention to me, too.
I like that he’s willing to let me establish the rules. That if I want to keep him fetching things for a chance to see me, he’s content to do so. He wants me comfortable, and I like that most of all.
Eight
JRRRU
Five Months Later
I drop a slab of freshly grilled meat atop a slice of bread and eye the portion size, then add another slice of steaming steak on top. Then I add an egg, just in case it’s not enough food to get me through the day.
At the breakfast table, Chelsea makes a face. She’s got one of those sweet bun things that both she and Hrrrusek like, but I prefer my meals a little more bloody. “That thing is practically still kicking,” she jokes. “Can’t you cook it for longer than that?”
“The blood’s where all the flavor is,” I point out. “Ask your mate.”
She just laughs at my suggestion. “We both know he’ll agree with me.”
I grunt at that, swinging my leg over my chair to sit at the breakfast table. I can hear my brother in the shower, singing along to some song Chelsea taught him about working on railroads. I don’t even know what a railroad is, and I bet neither does Hrrrusek. Chelsea isn’t wrong about Hrrrusek agreeing with her over breakfast. My brother is quite happy to let Chelsea steer their sled, so to speak, and he’ll eat anything put in front of him. “You’ve ruined him.”
“I’ve domesticated him,” she corrects with a grin, and takes a bite out of her bun. “Speaking of…”
Oh no. I’ve somehow walked into Chelsea’s favorite conversation trap. I shove food into my mouth quickly, wondering if I can eat fast enough and avoid prolonging this topic.
“Have you thought about finding your own place?”
She blinks at me, all innocence, as if we don’t have this conversation on the regular. I chew faster, but the wad of meat between my teeth doesn’t seem to be breaking down enough for me to swallow just yet. I’m trapped. I chew and stare, chew and stare.
“I mean, it has been six months.” Chelsea cups her mug in her hands. “Not that we don’t love having you here, but I can’t imagine you want to stay on the sofa forever.”
