The scream emitting from Brooks’ throat is one of sheer terror, and I’m shocked a puddle of urine isn’t soaking the cushions of my brand-new couch. He needs to take a chill pill.
“Help!”
I yawn. “You’re fine.”
He squeals, “How can you say that?” and that’s when I begin to laugh. “How?!”
He’s serious.
Tears stream from the corners of my eyes, streak down my cheeks, and Lord, I know I shouldn’t be laughing—because he’s freaking out—but there’s no stopping it now. “Shhh, calm down. Calm down.” I’m sputtering with a snort, tears, and also some spit, doing my best to soothe him. “You’re scaring her.”
My poor little boo-baby is crouched next to Brooks, torn between her want of a treat and the urge to escape into her kitty house.
“I’m scaring her? I. Scared her. She scared me! What the fuck, Abbott—whose side are you on?”
My eyes fly back to the cat.
Yup, Desi definitely looks terrified—not enough to jump down from his lap, but enough that her ears are pulled back into a defensive position.
I keep laughing at him. He’s ludicrous. “Sides? What are you, five? It’s a cat, not a person trying to compete with you. Dear Lord, get a grip.”
Desdemona’s ears slowly slide back into their normal position as I sweet-talk her, waving a little piece of egg in her direction.
Her nose twitches curiously. One tiny paw goes back onto Brooks’ forearm and he bristles. Glares.
“This cat isn’t normal!”
“Neither is your yelling about it. Let her love you.”
Voice having risen four octaves, Brooks has his arms and plate extended over his head like a convict waiting for a pat down from the police, his eyes glued to the animal creeping back onto his lap, her pink nose sniffing toward the plate he’s holding hostage.
“No. Bad pussy.” He holds it higher until Desdemona is forced to retreat from her looting. The savage, greedy little thing. “Bad.”
My kitty gives him a pitiful little mew. Pats at his abs with her petite white paw, beseeching.
“No,” Brooks tells her again.
“You know, cats aren’t like dogs. She doesn’t know any commands.”
Trust me, I tried teaching her how to roll over and play dead the first few months I got her, but she wasn’t having it. Occasionally she’ll come running when I call out her name, but mostly she gives me the big green weenie.
Desi puts her face on his lap, deciding to wait him out.
She’s no fool, probably knows he’s afraid and isn’t going to budge from that spot.
Animals can smell fear.
“Awww, look at her—she likes you.”
Brooks, too petrified to move even an inch, is stiff as stone. Back ramrod straight, arms still above his head. “The feeling is not mutual.”
“At least you can stop worrying she’s going to claw your face off.”
My neighbor studies my face, eventually asking, “You think this is funny?”
“One hundred percent.” I cannot lie.
“You’re sick.”
My shoulders move up and down in a casual shrug. “I guess I could have warned you—Desi loves eggs. And popcorn. Loves people food.” In fact, love is putting it mildly. Any time the gluttonous furball hears the fridge open, she comes stampeding into the kitchen like a tiny herd of cattle.
Brooks stares at me for a good, hard second. “You did that on purpose!”
Cannot confirm or deny that one. So, I go with a futile, “You insisted on coming over to be fed. You don’t even know me, just invited yourself in to mooch off my nan’s giving nature! Do not blame me for any of this.”
“You are so full of shit, Abbott—you knew damn well the cat was going to jump on me as soon as I sat down. Don’t lie.”
“Oh, now I can predict what the cat is going to do? I’m not a psychic.”
Desdemona, unsatisfied with the progress she’s making by manipulating him with her cute face, rises to stand, climbing farther into his lap. Walks her kitty paws up his chest, furry face reaching for his. Nose practically squished against Brooks’ neck, the loud purrs emitting from her belly no doubt vibrating on his chest.
“Jeez, get this thing off me.”
Thing? This thing?
I’m insulted for my cat for the second time this morning and come to her defense. “You said you didn’t want her attacking you, but you don’t want her to love you, either? Make up your mind.”
“You should have told me the cat likes eggs.”
I check my fingernails for lint. “I forgot.”
“Has anyone ever told you you’re an awful liar?”
“Yeah, that’s what I hear.” I pop another forkful of Benedict into my mouth and chew. Swallow. Shrug. “Has anyone ever told you that you scream like a girl?”
He doesn’t even have the energy to look affronted. Just tells me, “Shut up, I do not.”
I don’t chastise him for the bad manners, instead driving my point home to irritate him.
“No, for real. You sound just like one.” I lean across the couch and reach for the eggs Benny on Brooks’ plate. Pluck a bit of egg off for the cat, feeding her from the palm of my hand as Brooks looks on, still breathing heavily. Terrified. “Good kitty. Good kitty witty.”
I don’t usually talk to Desi like she’s a baby; it’s mostly for my neighbor’s disgusted benefit, because now my cat is purring all up on him and Brooks is hating life right now. Baby-talking the cat likely increases that misery.
I’m not wrong.
“Please take my plate,” Brooks begs.
I lean my back against the couch cushions, enjoying his anguish. “Meh. I don’t think so.”
I fluff the blanket on my lap. It’s white and pristine and fluffy, just like the cat curled up on his.
“Please. I think I’m having a heart attack.”
Doubtful. “If you were having a heart attack, you wouldn’t be complaining right now.”
“I’m not hungry anymore.”
Yes, he is; he’s just being stubborn. “Stop being a pussy.”
His blue eyes widen and he mocks a gasp. “How dare you throw that word in my face? How dare you!”
Speaking of pussies, Desi coils up in his lap and purrs furiously, snuggled against this newcomer she’s decided she loves and adores.
Just like I knew she would.
6
Abbott
I’m at work bright and early on Monday, a pep in my step that wasn’t there when I left the office on Friday—even after happy hour with my colleagues.
I don’t see Dale when I round the corner, coffee in hand, headed for my office, but his secretary is at her desk, fingers tapping away at her desktop. On her monitor is a huge image of an orange tabby cat I can see from here. A framed photo of the ugliest dog I’ve ever seen sits next to the computer, and my brows go up as I breeze past.
“Morning Ms. Margolis,” she greets over the wall of her cubby.
“Morning…” Shit, what’s her name? Becky? “Beth.”