Chapter 4
Chapter four
Marmalade
Becky
My dearest Remi,
Do you remember that cat you found in the alley behind the house? The mangy orange one? The stray? You said he was cute. I asked if he was rabid. You said we should adopt him. I said no.
It didn’t matter. He wouldn’t let us get close to him. He’d yowl and hiss and spit.
Every day for six months you went to him. You sat on that rough pavement, even in the summer when it burned the backs of your thighs. You stayed still. No moving. No talking. Only waiting. You told me he needed time to get used to you. To learn to trust you.
Six months, you sat there and I sat beside you.
Not for the cat. I didn’t care about him.
I wanted to be near you.
Then, one day, that stupid cat came over and sniffed your knee.
A few days later he bumped his head against your thigh.
A month after that, you picked him up and carried him home.
You named him Marmalade. He slept with you every night, curled against your chest, even though the doctors warned it was a bad idea.
I thought he was such a dumb cat, but it turned out he was the smartest creature around.
Now I can’t stop thinking about him.
Wondering if people can be tamed like that too. Or if some of them are born feral and stay that way.
Marmalade needed patience. You know I’ve never been good at that.
I’ll go with pressure.
God. I miss you so damn much.
Love always,
Becky
P.S. Marmalade still sleeps on your pillow. He’s waiting for you to come back. Stupid cat.
P.S.S. I was going over my notes last night. All my files and I noticed it again. All those frat boys, the ones who live at Ashford House, their names all end with -son. Carrson, Thomson, Jackson, Michealson, Steveson.
You get the point. That’s not normal, right?
At first I thought it was legacy names passed down through rich Southern families or something. Like they recycle the same names over and over again. But now I’m not so sure…