Chapter 21
Dom promised he’d check in on me later today, after he gets a mountain of work done. After writing for a while, I start hitting a wall of hunger, so I grab a travel mug of iced coffee and set out on a quick jaunt down to the ABC Store. I need sustenance if I’m going to nail this scriptwriting thing.
While checking out, the cashier at the little store recognizes me from the viral clip.
“You here to forget about that proposal?” she asks, but she’s smiling sweetly like she genuinely wants to know.
I sigh, forcing back a smile. “And to get more snacks.” I set a bag of yogurt-covered pretzels and a box of Raisinets on the counter. Her name tag has Ginny written in blocky letters.
“Did you move here or just visiting?”
I guess Ginny likes to keep tabs on her customers.
“Just renting a little place up the road for a few weeks. The snacks are a distraction from my writer’s block. Hoping the salty sweetness will perform a small miracle and I’ll accomplish what I came here to do.” Then I grab a chilled bottle of prosecco out of the nearby fridge and hold it up. “And this is if the snacks don’t work.”
She drags the bottle’s barcode across the scanner. “Ah, you’re a writer now?”
I’m not used to the slow, friendly pace here on the island. A grocery clerk would never dream of opening up a casual conversation back home. Everyone is always in too much of a hurry.
“Trying to be.”
“Then be one.” She smiles, like it’s that simple. “And I’ll be here when you need more salty-sweet miracles.”
She tosses a small pack of Swedish Fish at me, which I somehow catch with one hand.
“You got these last time you came in yesterday, right?” she asks, smiling. “Hopefully they help more today than they did yesterday.”
“Thank you, Ginny,” I say, feeling touched by her thoughtfulness. Most people like to gape at me, but she seems genuinely sweet. “Even with these, there’s still a good chance that I’ll see you later.”
“I think today is going to be your day,” she adds. “But, if not, come see me again. I’ll be here.”
As I’m walking home, thinking about how everyone seems so nice here, a shabby brown-and-black cat darts between my legs. It nearly trips me, weaving its lean body around my ankles with each step.
I catch my balance, careful not to trip on it, but the cat falls into a trot beside me, dodging over and under my feet until I finally come to a stop. Her coat has a unique coloring, like a bowl of mashed-up prunes.
When I stoop down to pet her, she immediately flops to her side, ribs poking up through the thin skin on her belly. She starts purring loudly, like a heavy rollerball is lolling back and forth inside her chest. I lean against someone’s fence and sink down onto the sidewalk, rubbing her soft fur through my fingers.
I might open the prosecco bottle right here while the cat and I have a good chat about writer’s block, stupid ex-boyfriends, and sexy Airbnb guys. But after about ten minutes, the owner of the house behind the fence comes out and crosses her arms, watching me like I may be a random drunk leaning against her property line at nine thirty in the morning.
“Aloha!” I say, grabbing my bag. Then I rise to my feet and shuffle down the road again.
The cat falls in line beside me again, following me all the way back to the townhouse, where I have to slide my body through the door and push her out gently with the side of my foot just to get it shut. I can still hear her meowing outside when I sit down to type again.
“Forget the cat, Olivia. Focus on the script,” I say loudly, even though no one else is here except me.
Hovering my hands over the keyboard, I manage to type my next sentence.
But she’s too cute to forget.
I immediately erase it.
I sigh and look toward the front door, pausing to listen for another soft mew.
Right on cue, an angry meow rifles through, followed by four more.
Without thinking about it, I walk right over and open the door, hoping against all my better judgment that Pru will run in. Pru, short for Prunella — she looks a bit mangy, like a pile of prunes. I started calling her that earlier when we were bonding together on the sidewalk.
I stand with the door wide open, looking around.
“Oh my God, Liv, what the hell are you doing?” I mutter to myself. I can’t have a stray cat in here. I don’t even have a litter box. I’m about to give up when she suddenly sprints inside. Just a blackish-brown streak flashing past my feet.
“Pru!” I cheer, clapping my hands, shutting the door with her safely inside.
She jumps onto my laptop, then lies down across the keyboard, just like Toby likes to do back home.
“Thank you for joining me,” I whisper to the cat. “Toby sent you here, didn’t he?” Maybe cats are telepathic like that.
She flops onto her back and starts purring like she did on the sidewalk an hour ago, inviting me to do more belly rubs.
“I knew it.”
However, she’s a little less naturally intuitive than Toby. Fifteen minutes later, writing inspiration has struck, and I’m shoving her off the laptop so I can get the words down before I lose them again.
I finally free the laptop from under Pru’s purring body, and hold it over my head with both hands, wondering where I’m going to write that she can’t reach. Maybe this was a bad idea after all. She hops to her feet on the table and starts pawing at my stomach while the laptop waves overhead.
“Olivia!” I hear Juju’s singsong voice at my back door, followed by a gentle knock against the glass.
When I swing around, she’s watching me, wide-eyed, with two mugs of coffee clasped in her hands.
I still hate these giant windows whenever anyone is out on that deck.
“Is that a cat?” Her voice sounds thick behind the windowpanes.
I nod, knowing I must look ridiculous with a shabby cat pawing at my abs while I hold my computer over my head.
“Well, I want to meet her!” she calls out.
When I slide open the door, Juju hands me one of the mugs, then walks past me to get inside.
“Thanks for the coffee,” I mutter, then survey the deck for Rex.
It’s empty.
I spin around, wondering if he told Juju about our history yet. He’s an idiot if he thinks she’s not going to find out on her own, but it isn’t my story to tell. He’s her boyfriend — it’s his job to tell her.
“You got a cat?” She rushes over to pet Pru. There’s no judgment to her voice, which I appreciate, since I’m starting to feel a bit unhinged right now. I’d never let a stray cat in my apartment back home.
“Sort of. More like the cat got a human,” I tell her. Pru hops off the table and starts weaving around Juju’s ankles. “She followed me home from the store earlier. When I opened the door, she ran in.”
“There are so many strays on the island,” she says sadly, bending to pet her. “Cats and chickens everywhere. I’m glad this sweet little girl has found a good home. Even if it’s only temporary.” She rises again, beaming. “Have you told the owner yet?”
I can’t imagine Dom wanting a cat in his rental.
“Umm . . . I think Pru might just stay with me for the morning, then be gone again by tomorrow?”
“I doubt she’ll be going anywhere.”
Juju leans down to pick her up. Pru nuzzles her head into Juju’s neck, the rollerball in her chest growing louder.
“Why not?” I ask.
She breaks into a wide grin and nuzzles her right back.
“Because you’ve already named her.”