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“Oh man, you’re all uncomfortable. You got a thing for her, don’t you?” Parker grins and nods knowingly, as if he’s reading my mind.
I wipe my damp palms on my pants under the table. “I met her once, and she’s taking care of my mother’s cat.” As if that has any bearing on her level of attractiveness.
“Yeah, but admit it, she’s got that sexy librarian vibe going on.”
“Sexy librarian? Really?” Josh grabs his own phone and punches at the screen with his finger.
“You were browsing her IG account when I called her,” I point out.
“Yeah, but I wasn’t paying attention to what she looks like.” He flips through photos until he reaches one with Kitty’s entire face in the shot, then cocks a knowing brow at me. “Oh yeah, Parker’s right about the sexy librarian thing.”
I brush off their comments. There’s no way I’m admitting I find her attractive. Or that her disgruntledness with me when I was a d-bag is also hot. “What she looks like has no bearing on her ability to take care of a cat.”
Parker scoffs loudly and makes a lewd comment, and suddenly everyone is on my ass about the Kitty Whisperer.
I ignore their juvenile behavior and check my messages.
I have two from my dad and a voice mail. I haven’t told him Mom is in the hospital yet. Or that the doctors think she has early-onset dementia. My parents started a family later in life, but even still, she’s only in her mid-sixties. Their relationship has been tricky since they divorced. So much so that my dad moved back to British Columbia, where he grew up. He needed to escape the memories, and he has siblings out there. I don’t blame him. The end of their relationship came as a result of too much loss. I don’t know how he’s going to feel about the news, and with this new job and all my own baggage, I just don’t have the bandwidth to take on his, too.
I leave my dad’s messages unanswered and scroll to the next ones, which are from Kitty. Thank God. Because under hers are ones from my mom.
Kitty: Did you know about this litter situation?!?
Kitty: I didn’t mean to send that picture of my nostrils.
Kitty: I was trying to escape the smell from the previous picture and sent it by accident. [puking emoji]
Kitty: Do you have any idea where your mother keeps the fresh litter? Prince Francis is taking a stand against his current bathroom conditions and it needs to be managed.
I can’t read the tone of her messages, but I imagine she’s pissed based on the punctuation at the end of the first message. Great. Just what I need, another strike against me.
I scroll up to the picture that’s basically a closeup of her nose and a bit of chin, and continue to the previous image. It’s a litter box, one that needs to be changed, like a week ago, if I had to guess.
Dogs always do their business outside. I didn’t even consider there might be a litter box that would need to be changed. And now I’ve left Kitty to deal with that disgusting task. I wonder if she’ll charge me more for that. Probably. I would if I were her.
I send her a bunch of emojis, including the cringey face one and the shrugging shoulders.
In the background the guys are still talking about Kitty and her hotness level. It’s an astoundingly juvenile conversation.
A new gif appears—she seems to be a fan of these—and it annoys me an irrational amount that it’s a cute cat talking on a phone. A message follows:
Kitty: Can I call you?
Miles: sure.
A phone conversation is probably easier than texting, and I’ll be able to gauge how annoyed she is with me and whether I’ll need to find another kitty whisperer when I’m back in Toronto. Two seconds later my phone rings. Which, for whatever reason, I don’t expect, even though she just asked if she could. I hop up from the table and knock my chair over in the process. It clatters to the floor with a bang and draws even more attention, making my hasty exit impossible.
And because Parker is young, and apparently a jerk, he yells, “Who you talking to? Is that Kitty? Ask her if she has a boyfriend and if it’s serious. And if she’s interested in hot hockey players with excellent stamina.”
I right my chair and shoot a glare his way, then bust my ass away from the table. “Hey. Hi. Hello.” My conversation skills and my coordination are clearly suffering this morning.
“It sounds like you might be busy.” Her voice is raspy. She clears her throat and sniffs once.
“It’s fine. I’m out with the team.”
“The team?” she echoes.
“Yeah. I’m a data analyst for Toronto’s NHL team. We’re out for breakfast.”
