Chapter 11
Taysom
It seems a little vulnerable and inconsequential at the same time.
“I just asked a question once. I can’t remember how I found the site, but I know it’s affiliated with an entire chain of pet shelters throughout the world.”
“A question?” Charlotte prompts.
I hesitate and then sigh. “I was considering getting a dog or cat a while back.”
“And you’re not anymore?”
“Probably not. Too much travel for football, you know?”
We’re interrupted by the cat again, telling us in no uncertain terms that he wants out of there now.
“I feel so bad for the little guy.” Charlotte steps off the porch and gets on her knees so she can peer in through the latticework. “And where’s his cat mommy and cat siblings? I wonder if his owners are looking for him?”
“If he even has owners. He could be a stray.”
“He still has a cat mommy somewhere.” She frowns. “Unless something happened to her.”
“Come on, little buddy,” I say, crouching down so I can better see the shape of him. I guess Charlotte’s right about how shining a light on him would probably scare him. Still, it’s dark under there, and I’d like to get a better look to see if he has any injuries.
“Hey buddy…” Charlotte says in a sweet, quiet voice. “We have dinner for you.” She pushes the bowl even closer to the side of the porch. She peers in closer. “We’d love to help you if we knew how.”
“I just typed up a question in the forum. We’ll see if anyone responds.”
“I wish he could understand we won’t hurt him. We’re only trying to help.” She rests her head against the top board of the porch. “Poor little baby. How did you get in there? If we can figure that out, maybe we can figure out how to get you out.”
As odd as this situation is, I like spending time with Charlotte.
The whole Mercer family just has that effect on me.
I’m comfortable around them. In a world of constantly changing loyalties, people being your fan only when you’re playing well, and the media making all kinds of judgments about you, it feels good to be around someone who feels safe… someone you’ve known forever.
And now that Charlotte is older, the four years between us, which used to feel big, don’t mean anything at all.
And well…it’s Charlotte. I don’t exactly know how I feel about her. Just that old friends like her need to be held onto.
A gasp slides across the air, and it takes me a second to realize it’s Charlotte and not the kitten.
“Are you okay? What happened?”
“I’m…I’m stuck.” Charlotte says, her face up against the lattice covering, her voice muffled.
“Stuck? As in…?” I get up on my knees and lean in closer to her to see in the semi-darkness. “Oh, it’s your hair.”
“Ugh. My hair is always causing me problems.”
I swallow a laugh. “How did you manage that?” I can see it now. A lock of hair at the hairline above her forehead somehow threaded through a split in the wood. A section of her hair hangs down into the kitten’s territory.
She groans against the wood. “I don’t know, turning my head from side to side to get a better look. Are you going to help or not?”
This time I can’t contain my chuckle. “You and the scrapes you get yourself into.” I have to get very close to her as I pinch the hair right next to her scalp and give it a little tug.
“Ouch,” she says.
“Sorry. Um, yeah, it’s in there pretty good. The problem is there’s some dry rot in the wood, looks like. That’s why there are sharp edges.”
“Dry rot? Of course there’s dry rot. Add that to the list of repairs.”
“Here. Hold on.” I leave her clean, citrus scent and scramble over to my bag. Unzipping it, I locate Kyle’s hammer.
“Are you going to destroy my lattice board?” Her muffled voice teases me.
I use the claw end of the hammer. “How about temporarily and partially dismantle? Does that sound better? I promise I’ll put it back, good as new.”
“Uh, I guess if it’s necessary.”
“It is, for both you and the kitten.”
“What are you saying?” Even with half her head smashed up against the latticework, her eyes dance.
“Just that you’ve both gotten yourselves into a predicament.”
She groans again, but I’m already invested in this.
“I can just yank out a few hairs,” she insists.
“No need,” I say, as the wood gives way with a splintery crack and separates from the rest of the porch.
“I’m free!” She laughs and rubs the top of her head.
“Are you okay?” I ask, taking her in.
“I’m okay. This is the second time today I’ve embarrassed myself around you, though.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean the train wreck that was the interview.”
I drop the hammer into the bag. “Trainwreck? I thought it was good.”
She twists her mouth to one side, not meeting my gaze. “It wasn’t, but thanks.”
“No, we’re going to get the Center’s name out there and help people understand just how important your work is. Hopefully, we’ll get you some donors after it airs.”
“Well, I apologize about trying to convince you to use your foundation’s funds on us. And for accusing you of nefarious intentions.”
“No apology necessary.” I smile. “I enjoyed the convo. I wish the funds weren’t already allotted.” I sober. “And I’m really sorry about you losing your job.”
“We’ll find a way.” She shrugs. “Here, kitty, kitty,” she says softly. “We’ve paved a big highway for you. You can come on out now.”
I reach up and inspect the top of her forehead with my finger, lightly sliding it over her skin. “Is your head okay?”
She palms her hair out of the way. “Yeah. I do not care about losing a few hairs.”
“I’ve always really liked your hair.”
She scoffs. “Thanks.”
“I have. I do.”
“You only like it because you don’t have to deal with it. If you had it, trust me, you’d hate it.”
“Why? What do you mean?”
“Do you realize that, traditionally, redheads were supremely hated? In some ancient European folk beliefs, if a couple gave birth to a ginger child, they were thought to be cursed, that it was a sign they were being punished for something. Ancient Greeks and Romans called redheads ‘barbarians’ in some contexts.” She laughs.
“We’ve been looked down upon and blamed for millennia.
” She scoots away from the new opening in the porch wall. “Trust me, you don’t want red hair.”
“But I think it’s really pretty.”
She looks like she’s going to disagree with me again, but then she just waves me away. “Okay.” She studies her hands.
“I can tell you don’t believe me.”
“I guess we all just want what we can’t have. I used to dye my hair. Like dark brown or auburn. I even went blonde once. It was great, until it wasn’t.”
“What happened?”
“I suddenly developed an allergic reaction to the dye.” She shakes her head.
“I have the worst luck. And it’s a little isolating being the only ginger in my family.
Maddy can tan. She gets all glowy and golden in the summer.
I just get more freckles, and there’s certainly not a tan underneath those sunshine kisses.
I’m either white as a sheet with brown speckles everywhere, or I’m fried red. ”
“Yeah, you don’t tan, but that doesn’t mean you’re less attractive.”
Her eyebrows raise and her chin wobbles the tiniest amount, and she swallows hard.
“For the record,” she says, “I learned my lesson early on and now coat myself with sunscreen multiple times a day. Thankfully I haven’t had a sunburn in years. But still, that’s only because I’m unhealthily attached to my sunscreen. I kid you not, I buy it in bulk.”
“I’m glad it works to protect you.” I hold up my hands. “All I’m saying is, I really do love your hair.”
“Thanks,” she says quietly.
To mitigate some of the sudden awkwardness at my boldness, I look again at the forum. “Hey, we’ve gotten some responses.”
“What do they say?”
I laugh. “Most of them are just commiserating with us. But someone suggested prying off a section of wood from the porch.”
“Check! You already did that.”
“See? We already know how to be good pet owners.”
She smiles. “Totally.”
“Someone suggested singing him a lullaby to lure him out of there.”
“Ha! I am completely tone-deaf,” she says. “But you’re welcome to give it a try.”
I begin with the first song that comes to my head, in the lowest, most calm voice I can imagine.
Charlotte bursts out laughing.
“Shhh!” I toss her a look. “I’m trying to lure him out of there.”
“With a Miley Cyrus song?”
“It’s the first one to pop into my head!
Sorry!” I keep singing until I get snagged on the lyrics.
I know it’s something about loving me better.
I really don’t know this song and have no idea why it came to me when it did.
I can only attribute my crazy brain to the fact that being around Charlotte just feels… surprising. It’s throwing me off.
She supplies the rest of the line and before I know it, we’re singing a duet. She’s right, she is kind of tone-deaf.
Which I somehow find adorable.
The kitten’s meow sounds closer, and I look to see him tentatively step through the hole we’ve made in the porch’s side.
Charlotte gives a little gasp, but I gesture to her to keep singing.
We keep whisper-singing words about buying our own flowers and talking to ourselves. The tiny cat, grey and white, shakily makes its way to the bowl, cautiously sniffs the contents, and laps at the liquid hungrily.
Charlotte stops singing. “Awww, he’s so cute.”
I carefully and quietly place the lattice board over the hole we had created. “We don’t want him running back in there after he’s done.”
The cat drinks maybe half of the formula in the bowl and then lifts his face, licks his mouth and whiskers, and then walks slowly over to me. His amber eyes scan the perimeter, and his little pink nose sniffs every which way before he gingerly steps into my lap.
“He loves you.” Charlotte’s mouth hangs open. “And he seems familiar with people, which means maybe he’s not a stray.”
I carefully lift my hand to pet his soft back. He turns around and stretches, paws out, tail up.
“Uh, I actually think it might be a girl.”
Charlotte gasps again. “Okay, then, we’re naming her Miley.”
I laugh. “Okay, done. Nice to meet you, Miley.” The kitten settles into my lap and meows again, but this time, it’s a softer, more contented sound. “Are you feeling better?” I ask the cat.
“She does like you,” Charlotte says with a smile.
Charlotte really is one of my oldest friends. I mean, we never were super close, of course. But I like her, in the way that one likes the younger sister of your closest friend.
I might know of another job for her. I attended a meeting on this very subject with my foundation’s president, Raj, where they discussed how the Sports Medicine Institute is hiring several occupational therapists along with a whole slew of physicians, trainers, researchers, and physical therapists.
They’re opening up more positions within a couple of days.
If I could get her in front of the Human Resources people for the Institute, I’m sure they’d hire her.
With the money from my foundation, HR will definitely consider it. My mind turns. The HR director will be at our big spring training kickoff scrimmage tomorrow. It’s a private event, a short flag football game played for friends and family.
I want to help her.
“Hey, I have an idea. Will you come to a thing at the stadium tomorrow night?”