Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
I didn't even like cats.
My truck was already headin’ toward the store before I'd made a conscious decision to point it anywhere. My hands just… went. Apparently my hands had feelings about a cat sleepin' on the floor.
"A sweatshirt."
I said it out loud just to hear how stupid it sounded.
It sounded pretty damn stupid.
"She's fine," I told the windshield. "Cats sleep on floors. That's a thing they do. She's a cat."
The windshield had nothin' to say about that.
"She's my—" I stopped. Cleared my throat. "She's a cat that lives in my house. That I own. The house. Not the cat."
Route 89 offered no commentary.
"Calvin took her to the vet." Calvin, who claimed to also hate cats, who had named the cat before I did, who had apparently made a veterinary appointment and paid a vet bill and not said a single word about it like it was just a thing you did. Like she was just a person who did things like that.
I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel.
"She's sleepin' on the floor."
I pressed the gas.
Lancaster Feed was just off the main drag—couldn't throw a boot in this town without hittin' something our family had touched—and I pulled into the gravel lot still havin' a full and robust conversation with nobody.
By the time I cut the engine, I'd talked myself into this three separate times and back outta it twice.
The only conclusion I'd reached was that a grown man of thirty-five should not be this worked up about a twelve-week-old cat sleepin' on his sweatshirt on the floor.
And yet.
There I was.
Not my proudest moment, TBH.
The bell above the door gave its usual half-hearted jingle.
Luke was behind the counter. He looked up, clocked me, and looked back down at whatever he was writin'.
"We're closed."
"It's ten in the morning."
"For you, we're closed."
I ignored him and made for the back of the store.
I'd stood in this exact spot—this same worn linoleum, this same grain-and-molasses smell hangin' in the air—about two months ago, starin' down bags of dog food and tryna figure out my entire life.
Same aisle.
Different animal.
Cat food.
There were fewer options than the dog food situation, which shoulda made this easier.
It did not make this easier.
I crouched in front of the bottom shelf and picked up a bag, turned it over, read the ingredients like they meant somethin' to me. Put it back. Picked up another.
"You need somethin' or are you just hauntin' my store?"
Luke had materialized at the end of the aisle without a sound. Arms crossed. Default expression, which was to say, no expression at all.
"Does a cat prefer wet food or dry?" I asked.
He paused. "How old?"
"Twelve weeks."
"Wet. Or a mix."
I nodded and reached for a variety pack. Then stopped.
"What about—does it matter what flavor?"
Luke stared at me for a long moment. "Brody."
"I'm just askin'."
"You are askin' me what flavor of food a twelve-week-old cat prefers."
"She might have preferences."
The silence that followed was the specific, weighted kind that only a younger brother could manufacture. Luke turned and walked back to the counter.
I grabbed the variety pack, the grain-free bag beside it for good measure, and followed.
Set them on the counter.
Went back.
Came back with a water fountain—the kind with a filter and the recirculating pump, because cats were supposed to like movin' water, I'd read that somewhere—and a bag of kitten treats with a picture of a real smug-lookin' tabby on the front that seemed like it knew things I didn't.
Luke's pen had gone still.
I went back.
The bed was pink. Not aggressively pink—a sorta dusty rose, technically—with a low rolled edge and a cushion that looked soft enough to warrant the price tag. I put it in the crook of my arm.
Beside it on the shelf sat a collar. Also pink. Small, adjustable, with a little silver bell on it. I held it up. Set it down. Picked it back up. The bell made a high, tinny ring when I turned it in my fingers.
Into the crook of my arm it went.
The toys were in a wire basket at the end of the display—a crinkle ball, a feather wand, a mouse that rattled when you shook it. I grabbed one of each and carried the whole armload up front.
Luke had not moved. He was watchin' me approach, jaw clenched right like he was holdin' his tongue by the skin of his teeth.
I set everything on the counter.
Went back one more time.
The ceramic food bowl was small with a hand-painted, floral border around the base. Princess written across the front in delicate pink script.
I looked at it.
It looked back at me.
I put it back on the shelf.
Walked to the counter.
Stopped.
Turned around.
Went back. Picked it up. Walked to the counter and set it on top of the pile and did not make eye contact with my brother.
Luke looked down at the counter. Looked up at me. Looked back down at the growin' catastrophe of pink merchandise between us. He picked up the bowl. Turned it over. Set it back down.
Then, without a word, he started scannin'.
I watched him work through the pile with the care, savorin' every second he had left before he had to say somethin'. Water fountain. Bed. Treat bag. He paused—longer than necessary—on the collar with its small silver bell, givin' it a slow turn in his fingers before settin' it down and scannin' it.
He rattled off the total.
I handed over my card, punched in my pin, took it back.
"She got a name?" he finally said, tossin' everything in a spare box for me to haul out.
"The cat?"
"Yeah, Brody. The cat."
"Cat."
Luke stopped loadin' up the box.
I gave him my most threatening glare. "You gonna finish or what?"
He finished, lips pressed together like my glare had done absolutely fuckin' nothin' to put the fear of God in him. He folded and tucked the flaps of the box with the unhurried precision of a man exercisin' every last ounce of self-control he possessed.
Handed it across the counter.
I took it and headed for the door.
"Brody."
I stopped. Didn't turn around.
"You named her Cat."
"I didn't name her anything. She just—" I cleared my throat. "She lives in the house. She needed a name. It's a practical name."
"And the Princess bowl?"
I pushed through the door.
The bell gave its half-hearted jingle behind me.
Luke's laughter seeped through the door as it drifted shut, the sound of a man absolutely losin' it.
Cat was sittin' in the middle of the kitchen floor like she'd been expectin' me. Which, for fuck's sake, maybe she had. I was startin' to think this animal was runnin' things.
I set the box down and crouched, pullin' everything out and pilin' it up on the floor. The bed came out last. Cushion so thick I'd prodded it right there in the aisle like an idiot. I set it on the floor in front of her.
Cat approached. Sniffed the left side. Sniffed the right.
Sniffed the silver tag I'd already threaded onto the collar—Cat on one side, my number on the other.
Picked that little addition up at the hardware store from the fancy new engraving machine they'd just announced in the town paper.
She considered both the collar and the bed for a long, thoughtful moment.
Then she walked into the empty cardboard box everything came in, turned twice, and sat down.
I stared at her.
She stared back.
"You're doin' that on purpose."
She blinked, slow and unbothered, and tucked her paws under her chest.
I became aware of someone in the doorway.
Calvin. Arms crossed, leanin' against the frame. She had a look on her face I hadn't seen before—not the armor, not the smirk, somethin' softer and sweeter.
I held up the Princess bowl.
She looked at the bowl. The pink bed. The collar. Cat, sitting with great dignity inside a cardboard box.
I shrugged.
She crossed the room and kissed me.
I wasn't ready for that. The Princess bowl hit the floor. Neither of us looked down. When she pulled back, just barely, I felt her smile against my lips before I could see it.
I looked down. The bowl sat on the hardwood, completely unfazed. Sturdy little thing.
I kissed her again.