Chapter 18 Playlist As Calm as a Hurricane #2
I twist around and disappear into my walk-in closet and call out, “So, um. I probably have a couple of options for you…” I have to rummage around for several minutes to find what I’m looking for. When I re-emerge, I basically throw three shirts at him.
He lets out a sort of surprised breath as he moves quickly to catch them. He maneuvers them around in his arms, studying the design of each. He makes a face at the Patriots one and tosses it onto my bed.
“Don’t tell my dad you’re not a fan,” I warn, picking it up to refold. “I think he actually cried the day Tom Brady moved on.”
He laughs and finally chooses the basic tee with “CHAPPY” emblazoned across the front and threads his arms through.
He pulls it on, leaving his brown hair even more disorganized than before, like he just got out of bed.
The fact that he doesn’t seem to notice and doesn’t immediately smooth it out is so Gregory.
“Thanks for this,” he says, folding the last one he didn’t choose and handing it to me.
My reply is interrupted by a loud grumble.
“Was that your stomach?” I ask.
He winces. “I skipped lunch at work.”
“Want something to eat? I could get you something while we wait for the vet. Oh, do you like grilled cheese? I have a recipe that will change your life, I swear.”
“A life-changing grilled cheese?” Gregory shrugs. “That sounds like something I shouldn’t pass up.”
“You won’t regret it,” I say, and fifteen minutes later he’s sitting at our kitchen table as I slide a plate in front of him.
“Is that—” he starts, but I hold up a hand.
“Just try it. Trust me.”
He inspects the sandwich closely. “Is this too much cheese?”
“There’s no such thing as too much cheese, my guy. Just take a bite.”
“You’re being awfully aggressive about a sandwich.”
“That,” I say, “is not just a sandwich. It’s Amelia’s Famous Grilled Cheese, and yes, please imagine a little trademark symbol afterward.”
“Didn’t you get it from a recipe website?”
I squeeze my eyes shut and press a fist to my forehead. Gregory is trying my patience. “No. Amelia’s Famous Grilled Cheese is an original creation.”
“If you say so. Okay, here goes nothing.”
I open my eyes just in time to see Gregory take his first huge bite. Right in the middle of the slice too—the best part.
His eyes go wide as he chews, and my lips curve up in satisfaction. Another convert.
“Oh my God,” he groans. “What is in this? Crack? Nicotine?” I laugh as he continues to name off highly addictive substances.
“Just cheese and fig jam,” I say like it’s no big deal.
(The jam is a big deal. It’s Mrs. Reacher’s homemade jam that she sells at her bakery downtown, and it has to be hers. That, plus using mayo instead of butter before frying it up makes the sandwich).
“Impossible.” He takes another bite. “Fairy dust? Magic potion?” Then he makes a sort of moaning noise that quite frankly makes my skin feel tight.
I go back to the stove and make my own sandwich, then join him at the table. By this point his plate is empty and he eyes my food with interest.
“No,” I say, curving an arm around my plate protectively. “Gregory, no.”
He pouts.
My mom comes in and tells us that Dr. Valentine is on her way.
While I eat and we wait, she asks Gregory questions about himself.
I wonder if my dad knows about Gregory’s dad and he told my mom, because she seems to know to avoid talking about parents (plural) and doesn’t ask if a job brought them here.
I’m just thinking about how much more polite Gregory is to my mom than when he’s talking to me, when my phone lights up on the table.
It’s a text from Myles, and while the message itself doesn’t show up, his name does.
I quickly press a button on the side, and the screen goes black.
Then I glance at Gregory. His eyes dart from my phone to my face, and then he looks away.
The doorbell rings, and my mom goes to answer it. She comes back through the kitchen on her way to the garage, Dr. Valentine trailing behind. Gregory and I stay in the kitchen so we don’t get in the way, and they’re in the garage for less than ten minutes before they come back in.
“Well,” my mom says, “we know what the problem is.”
“What is it?” I ask.
“Fiona’s in labor.”
“As in, she’s pregnant?” Gregory asks.
“Yes,” Dr. Valentine says. “I expect the kittens to be here soon.”
I fall back in my chair. “Well, I guess that’s better than her being sick,” I say to Gregory. “At least she’ll be okay.”
“Yes, this is wonderful news,” my mom deadpans, casting me an annoyed glance. “This morning I had one pet, and tomorrow morning I’ll have several.” She turns back to the vet and asks, “You don’t happen to know somewhere we could take them, do you?”
“I can make some calls tomorrow and let you know,” Dr. Valentine says.
“But she needs to stay put right now. I’d recommend taking the male cat somewhere else for the time being, though.
He might be fine around the mom and the babies, but he might not.
And we really don’t need to give the mom anything else to worry about, like protecting the newborns from him. It’s better not to risk it.”
“Waffles is a boy?” I ask. “Do you think he’s the dad?”
Dr. Valentine nods. “If they’ve been hanging around together for a while, it’s possible.”
“Wow,” I say, and look at Gregory.
He’s got a funny grin on his face, and he nods slowly. “All right, Waffles,” he murmurs with new appreciation.
I shake my head and clamp my lips together to keep from laughing.
Dr. Valentine says she’ll see about a foster home for Fiona and the kittens, and then my mom walks her out.
“I’ll take Waffles to my house,” Gregory offers.
“Really? Your mom won’t mind?”
He laughs. “I didn’t say that. But you sprang a pregnant cat on yours. I figure mine can handle Waffles for a day or two until we figure something else out.”
“We could just take him back to the store,” I say.
“He’d get lonely! I’ll try this first. I guess that can be my last resort if my mom flips.”
I nod, and then we both just sort of look at each other.
“This day was unexpected, huh?” He leans back and stretches his arms above his head, then regards our empty plates. “Will you make me one of those again tomorrow?”
I laugh. “No.”
“No?”
“I’m working tomorrow.”
He looks like I just told him I wiped his entire Spotify account. “Friday?”
I shake my head. “Can’t. I’m busy.”
“Busy with what?”
“That’s none of your beeswax.” Oh God, what? That’s something my dad would say.
Gregory grins. “Do you regret saying that?”
“Yes. Immediately.”
He laughs and stands. “Well, I brought a pregnant cat over, stole one of your shirts, ate your food, and let your mom wash my clothes. I think my work here is done.”
“You’re not stealing that shirt,” I say. “I love it, so you’re giving it back. I’ll bring your other one to the store the next time you’re working.”
“How about a trade? You can keep the one in your washing machine.”
I balk. “Why would I want your shirt?”
He gives me a cocky look. “Most girls would kill to have my clothes.”
I roll my eyes. “Good thing I’m not most girls.”
“No,” he says quietly. “You’re not.”
Why do those words, and the look in his eyes as he says them, send sparks popping under my skin? Did he or did he not just say I’m his type for a friend?
I don’t know how, but somehow he extracts Waffles and gets her—wait, no, him; that’s gonna take some getting used to—into his car.
I head back upstairs, and within a few minutes of being in my room, I notice a new photo on my collage wall. I step closer and lean in, and smile.
It’s a selfie of Gregory, printed from my little camera.
His face takes up the entire frame. His smile is big and wide, mouth open and white teeth on display like he was laughing while he took it.
It’s like his brown eyes are looking right at me, and the tiny bit of hair visible at the top of the photo is sticking up and messy as usual.
He attached it to the light string with a clothespin, over the photo that I said makes me sad.
As I look at it, I realize how fitting it is. Because for a summer I thought would be my worst one yet, Gregory McLoughlin sure has made me smile a lot.