Frankie
I wake up disoriented.
At first I can’t figure out why. I’m in my own bed. The soft gray light of dawn is filtering in through the edges of my blinds.
I can hear the mourning doves cooing happily outside my windows.
But there’s another sound nearby I can’t quite make out. Maybe it’s related to the unfamiliar weight beside me that, in my
sleep-dazed state, I assume is the cat.
Then I open my eyes and see it’s not a cat. It’s my neighbor Ash, sleeping next to me on his stomach, stark naked.
And then the memories from last night come flooding into my brain, and for a second I just have to lie there, staring at the
ceiling while feeling the weight of Ash’s arm curled around my waist, and his soft gentle breathing against the pillow beside
me.
Oh, yeah. I banged my next-door neighbor.
Not just any next-door neighbor. Ash Merit.
A week ago, if you’d told me I’d be waking up in bed with Ash Merit after a night of scorching—and let’s be honest, pretty imaginative—lovemaking, I’d have suggested you might need neurological testing.
But now things are different. Looking at him as he sleeps beside me in the dim morning light, I can’t help but wonder how
I could possibly have hated him as much as I had. Sure, he’s a terrible landlord, and even worse at navigating social situations—except
ones that involve sex, evidently. That he handles with unbridled enthusiasm—one might even say expertise.
But there’s just something about him. . . .
It’s as I’m thinking this that I realize the sound I’ve been hearing but can’t place isn’t Ash’s steady breathing beside me,
or even the coo of the mourning doves in the tree outside. It’s a different sound, a kind of steady, rhythmic hum. Or is it
more of a purr?
It is. It’s a purr. But where is Daisy? And why is she purring so loudly if no one is petting her?
Puzzled, I sit up—careful not to wake Ash—and look around my bedroom. The cat has to be here somewhere. Why else can I hear
her?
But she’s not on my bed or on the cat bed I placed so carefully for her on the window seat so she could enjoy the view without
going outside. Where—
And then, while scanning the sisal carpet on the floor, I see my wicker laundry basket.
I must have gasped loudly enough to wake Ash, since he immediately raises his head and blinks sleepily. “Wh-what’s happening?”
But I’ve already thrown back the duvet and raced to the side of the laundry basket.
“Kittens!” I cry and sink to my knees.
Because there, in the middle of my laundry basket where I’d dropped the brand-new dress I’d worn the night before—not because I intended to wash it later, but because I was in too much of a hurry to jump Ash’s bones to bother hanging it back up—lies Daisy.
But not only Daisy. She’s contentedly nursing newborn kittens. It’s hard to tell how many there are because they’re all piled
on top of one another in a warm cuddle-puddle. All I can see is that there’s a calico-colored one, a bright orange one, and
at least one little all-black one.
Their mother has noticed I’m looking at her and slow-blinks at me—a sure sign a cat is feeling comfortable and at home—her
purring increasing in volume.
Ash sits up so he can see what I’m looking at. Then he bursts out laughing.
“I tried to warn you,” he says.
“You did.” Now that Daisy has moved a little, eager to show me her new family, I can count the squirming, sightless little
bodies. “Three! She’s got three kittens. Oh, Daisy, you good girl. Yes, you’re a very good girl.”
“And right in the basket, too.” Ash has climbed out of bed to join me on the sisal rug. The two of us kneel there, stark naked,
gazing down at the new little family as he slips an arm around my shoulders. “Well done, Daisy.”
“Yes. Well done, Daisy.”
I don’t mention the ruined dress. It doesn’t matter anymore. All that matters is the happiness I feel right at that particular
moment.
Maybe it’s because of Daisy and her little family. Or maybe it’s because of the dopamine and oxytocin.
Or maybe—just maybe—it’s because of Ash Merit.