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I’m still staring at his lips, pondering their kissability, so it takes me several extra seconds to respond. “I could have been more empathetic to begin with. Not everyone is a natural cat lover. And I’m happy I could help last night and tonight.”
“Me, too. I mean I’m happy too, about you helping.”
We smile at each other for a few seconds.
“Good luck at the home. I hope it’s the right fit for your mom.” I don’t know what to do with my hands, so I wrap them around me, like I’m giving myself a hug.
“Me, too.” He pulls his keys out of his pocket and flips them around his finger. “I’d say have fun with Prince Francis, but considering how much damage he causes, I don’t know that tonight is going to be all that awesome for you.”
“I’m sure that when he realizes there’s a lap to occupy, he’ll be fine.” I point to my crotch and realize too late that it’s inappropriate. Talking to Miles was easier before my hormones took over and made me stupid.
He stutter-steps to the walkway and does a two-step thing on the way to his car, still flipping his keys between his fingers. I wait until he’s pulling out of the driveway before I go inside.
I decide that the evening would best be spent on cat training. So I pull out my programmable buttons and get to work setting them up. The first button is the easiest one to inspire training: Treat. I settle cross-legged on the floor and shake my bag of treats. Prince Francis trots over and headbutts the bag of treats, which I tuck away in my pocket.
I press the button, and it says “Treat” in my voice. It gets his attention the way I want it to, and he sniffs the button, looking from me to it and back again.
For the next hour I sit with Prince Francis and teach him to press the button if he wants a treat. He gets the hang of it by the end.
Afterward, I make us both dinner, and then we settle in to watch a movie. Miles’s mother has great satellite TV and access to loads of movies, so I put on The Secret Life of Pets, and Prince Francis makes himself comfortable in my lap.
After the movie, I change the sheets on Miles’s childhood bed and grab my pillow from the car. I’ve just changed into my jammies when my phone buzzes with a message from Miles.
Miles: How is the demon child?
I grin and send him a gif of a sphynx cat looking sinister, then another of a cat looking angelic.
Kitty: He was on his best behavior.
I follow it with a video of Prince Francis pressing the Treat button, then looking up at me expectantly.
I get a slew of shocked face gifs in response and then my phone rings.
“You taught him how to ask for treats? Can I get my dog to do that?” Miles asks by way of greeting.
“Oh yeah, Wilfred can definitely learn. You just need patience and time.”
“You’re amazing, Kitty.”
“He’s food motivated, and I took advantage of that. I’ll add more buttons, but this is a good starting point.” I glance at my reflection in the mirror. My nipples are peaked against the fabric of my nightshirt, and not because I’m cold. I’m glad this is a phone conversation and Miles can’t see my face, or the rest of me. “How was the tour of the home?”
“It’s a nice place. I’m going to bring my mother back to see it in a couple of days.”
“That’s wonderful news!”
“Yeah, they have a great staff and varying levels of care, which is exactly what my mom needs. Anyway, I just wanted to check on you and Prince Francis. Tomorrow night the team has a home game, but I’ll be able to pop by the next day if that works for you. Can you text me in the morning, though, to let me know how it goes?”
“I can absolutely do that.”
“Great. Thanks again, Kitty. You really are a lifesaver.”
“It’s really no problem. Have a good night, Miles.”
“You, too, Kitty.”
I end the call, turn off the light, and climb into bed. I haven’t done an overnight cat-sit in a long time, and it’s a welcome change in routine. It takes all of thirty seconds before Prince Francis hops up onto the bed. He makes himself at home on the pillow next to me, one paw covering the back of my hand.
I drift off to sleep with a smile on my face and visions of Miles in his boxer shorts playing behind my eyelids.
Extremely loud yowling startles me awake. I bolt upright in bed, confused as I take in my surroundings, because I’m not in my own bedroom, and I don’t own a cat. For a moment, I’m thrust into the past, to the day my father passed away. Smokey had been yowling the same way, the sound forlorn and melancholic.
