Chapter 8
8
Sloane
On our third date, he takes me to the Brooklyn Botanic Gardens, and we stroll among the flowers, inhaling the scents of tulips and honeysuckle.
As we wander, we do more of what we’ve done so far. We talk, and we kiss, and we get to know each other. I learn more about his family and how close he is with his twin sister, and he tells me about his friends. I tell him, too, about Piper.
“And what about your parents? Are you close with them?” he asks.
I make a see-sawing gesture. “Mostly. I’m definitely close with my mom since she did the lion’s share of raising me. My father and I have a decent relationship. Funny thing—he’s a vet,” I tell him, then I adopt a serious tone. “Whatever would Freud say?”
He laughs, tugging me close. “Let’s hope Freud would have nothing to say on the topic.”
“That’s one of my life’s great ambitions—to be uninteresting to Freud.”
“An admirable goal.”
We talk about dreams and the things we want to do in life as we meander through the flowers. I’m enjoying everything about this man. Something feels so incredibly right when we’re together.
The next evening, we go to a beer-tasting event in Soho, and I confirm my expectations. “Never liked beer. Never will.”
“But you gave it the old college try.”
When we leave the brewery, I spot a gigantic black-and-white cat lounging on the sidewalk. I survey the block for a person. “Do you think he’s lost?”
“He might be,” Malone says. We walk over to the cat and the big guy is quite friendly. I reach down and look at his tag. His name is Applejack. “We should call Applejack’s owners. He probably shouldn’t be outside. Not in Soho at night.”
Malone nods as I reach for my phone then dial the number. “Hey. I’m outside the Soho Craft Brewery, and your cat is here.” I wait. “Sure, I’ll see you in a minute.”
Malone bends down, picks up the cat, and holds him.
“They’re coming over in a minute to get him,” I say.
“Look at you, Sloane. You’re a cat superhero.”
I point to Malone, soothing the feline. “And you’re a cat whisperer. Cats run from most people. This cat runs to you.”
“It’s my natural animal attraction.”
“It seems to work on me too.”
A minute later, Applejack’s person runs up to us, relieved to have found her cat. “Don’t you escape again,” the black-haired woman says to the cat, then thanks us profusely. “I swear he should have been named Houdini.”
“It’s never too late to change his name,” Malone calls after her.
As we walk in the other direction, he glances behind us then furrows his brow. “Are you sure you really want to do publicity for a shelter?”
I shoot him a curious look. “Why would you ask me that? It’s something I’ve always wanted to do—work with rescues, getting them as much awareness and support as I can.”
Malone hums as if he’s thinking. “I don’t think it’s a bad idea. But I could see you doing more. I could see you running your own rescue someday. I think it suits you. I think it’s exactly a thing you would do.”
“Because we called Applejack’s owner?”
“Yes, but also because it’s what you want. It’s your heart. Your passion.”
“You think?”
“You’d be amazing at it. Mark my words. Someday you’ll do it.”
The next night, we go to a piano bar, and we listen to aspiring singers take their turn at the mic. Malone even sings along quietly as we watch. His voice mesmerizes , just the same as it did the first night.
I grab his sleeve. “Hey, I think you should be a singer.”
He coughs. “I have a job. I’m happy as a vet.”
“I don’t mean as a new job. As something you do for fun, because you love it. You’re constantly singing, always humming under your breath.”
He laughs it off. “I have no aspirations to be Michael Bublé.”
“But you don’t have to make money at it,” I say. “You don’t have to record albums. Do it because it’s something that you enjoy. Do it because it’s an adventure.”
He arches a brow. “An adventure, you say?”
I nod, excitement wiggling around in me. I can tell this idea is taking flight in him. “You have a real passion and a real gift. Don’t let it pass you by. Singing doesn’t have to be everything. But maybe it can be just enough to be your adventure.”
He drops his forehead against mine. “Being with you is an adventure,” he murmurs.
“And I’m glad I followed its path.”
We continue our adventures over the next few nights, and during the days, I interview at the rescues. But I keep thinking about Malone’s idea.
Start a rescue.
Should I?
Am I too young to do that?
What would I need before I could truly go out on my own?
It’s not only the rescue idea that won’t stay quiet. I’m constantly thinking of both the man and the possibilities that our life together might hold.
Especially the naked ones.
Because we make a plan—after our seventh date, I’m going to his place.