Chapter Four: The Routines we Love
chapter four
THE ROUTINES WE LOVE
Kitty
O
n the way home from meeting Miles the grump and Prince Francis the adorable and regal sphynx, I stop at Kat’s Cat Café. Kat and I have been friends since ninth grade. We met on the first day of school in our English class. We compared schedules and realized we had all but one class together, and since then we’ve basically been inseparable.
Two years after she graduated from college, she opened Kat’s Cat Café, which is exactly what it sounds like. A café full of adorable rescue cats, most of which are available for adoption. You can grab a coffee or icy beverage (in a covered cup, because there is an incredible amount of fur in the air) and hang out with cats.
I have a desk in her office in the back where I take care of paperwork for my business and help Kat manage inventory and order supplies for the café.
I park, pop the trunk on my SUV, and retrieve the bag of old towels I picked up over the last week from clients, as well as a bag
of new promotional items. It’s part of what I do in exchange for the office space. Towels are one item they can never get enough of, along with scrap pieces of carpet they can use to refurbish scratching posts.
I find Kat sitting at one of the tables, her laptop propped in front of her, and a tabby curled up in her lap. Another cat sits on her hand, under which I’m assuming is a mouse—the kind you use for a computer, not a toy or real one.
On the other side of the café are Meryl and Louie, an elderly couple who live in the retirement apartments a few blocks over. They’re not able to have a cat of their own anymore, so they come here almost every evening for tea and a snuggle with a kitty. I murmur hello to a few of the other regulars scattered around the café as I make my way to Kat. She waves with the hand that isn’t under a cat butt. “Hey! I wasn’t sure if you’d be in today. How’d that meeting go with the Matt guy? Is the cat a cutie?”
I slide into the seat across from her and set the bag of towels on the floor. Paws, Horace, and Tux, three of the cats who live at the café full time, check out the contents by trying to climb inside the bag. “His name is Miles. The cat is an adorable sphynx, and mischievous. The human is a dog person.” I say it like it’s a bad word and glance around, making sure no one is within earshot, and lower my voice. “He compared the cat to a shaved ball sack.”
Kat’s mouth drops open. “He did not!”
“He insulted the poor baby so many times. I mean, read the freaking room, dude. I’m clearly a cat lover.” I motion to my shirt.
Kat gives me a knowing look. “Why are so many dog people anti-cat?” Her reaction makes me feel better about my own to his constant disdain for poor Prince Francis.
“I don’t know. They’re equally loveable, just for different reasons.” Maybe I’m extra defensive about Prince Francis because I know what it feels like to be judged solely by my appearance. I’ve learned to embrace my quirkiness, but I don’t have a Teflon coating, and not all the barbs aimed at me slide off with no impact.
Kat rolls her eyes. “He sounds like a real jerk.”
“His mother is in the hospital, so that could be part of the reason he was so crusty.”
“Oh, maybe. But still, that sounds like an awful first impression.” She tucks a few wayward strands of hair behind her ear, then shakes out her hand and blows out two quick breaths, sending a fluff of cat hairs floating to the ground. It’s a hazard of the job. Kat is petite, with dark hair and eyes to match. She grew up in the Philippines, but her family moved to the States when she was ten. Her mother is a doctor, and her father is an engineer. They were a bit confused when she decided to open a cat café, but eventually they embraced her chosen career.
“Yeah, it definitely wasn’t the best, but the cat is a cutie, and he’s the one I’ll be dealing with the most, so I’m not too worried.” Yet, anyway. Besides, this is a short-term care situation.
“Mm, the human variable is always the thing, isn’t it?” Kat gives me a sympathetic smile.
We spend the next half hour making a list of her inventory. Because of my robust social media following, I have a few sponsors
who provide free pet supplies in exchange for product placement in videos. It’s helpful for keeping costs down, and I pass on the perks to Kat, with the approval of the sponsors, of course.
I take a few videos while we test out the promotional items. I’ll edit them later, at home, and then upload them to our social media accounts later in the week. “We need to find a night to go out for dinner or something non–work-related,” I say once we’re finished with the filming and the inventory order.
“Agreed. Maybe we can plan something next week?”
“We should probably schedule it if we want it to happen, since we’ve been saying this exact same thing every time we see each other for the past month.” I flip over to my calendar in my phone.
“Good call.” Kat does the same, and Tux headbutts the device, clearly wanting her attention.
“What about Thursday? I’m done at five.”
Kat’s eyes light up. “I actually have a date.”
“What? Since when? Why is this the first I’m hearing of it?”
“It just happened today. He works at the pet store a few blocks over. I’ve told you about him before. His name is Brad. I had to grab some emergency cat treats because we ran out.”
“Oh, I remember. Who asked who out?” Kat has been crushing on him for a while. Enough that she stops there to buy slightly overpriced cat treats on a semi-regular basis, hoping to run into him.
“He asked me.”
Her blush makes me grin. “Well, we definitely need a lunch
or dinner or coffee date after your actual date so I can get all the details.”
We make a tentative plan to have lunch or coffee, depending on time constraints. Both of our schedules are pretty full, but a date is exciting.
I gather my things, and Kat pulls me into a hug, transferring tabby fur onto my shirt and cardigan. It’s the reason we both carry lint rollers in our purses at all times.
It’s closing in on eight by the time I get home from the café. Both my mom’s and my sister’s cars are already in the driveway, which isn’t a surprise. My mom doesn’t usually go anywhere in the evenings, and my sister, Hattie, is in her final year of college. She’s typically home at this time of night, unless she has an evening class or a study group. I’m too busy running my business to have much of a social life. It helps that Kat is also in the cat business; otherwise, we wouldn’t see each other nearly as much.
I open the front door and call out, “Hello! I’m home!”
“Hi, Kitty Kat! I’m watching
Two and a Half Men
, and Hattie’s in her room working on an essay, I think,” my mom calls out.
I toe off my shoes, leave my purse by the stairs, and follow her voice to the living room.
I find my mom sitting where she always is at this time of day: in my dad’s old lounger. It’s beat up and threadbare, and the footrest sometimes gets stuck in the up position, but it’s full of memories, so we keep it. I can’t imagine what this room would look like without it.
Every night after dinner the routine is the same. We wash
dishes and clean up the kitchen. If I have paperwork or social media posts to manage, I’ll join my mom in the living room, while she watches reruns of Dad’s favorite TV shows. It’s been like this ever since he died a decade ago. And before that, when he was alive, I would bring my homework to the living room, set up a TV tray, and work on it while he watched TV and my mom worked on the word games in the newspaper.
She pauses the show, stopping it in the middle of a laugh track. “Have you had dinner yet? I made lasagna. There are leftovers in the fridge.”
“Thanks. I’ll heat up a piece.”
“There’s some salad too. It’s Caesar, so hopefully it’s not too wilted. It’s been a couple of hours, though.” She frowns for a moment before her mouth tips up into a smile. “How about you bring it in here, and we can catch up on your day during the commercial breaks?”
The shows are recorded and still include all the commercials. They’re a throwback to my teenage years and the time before our lives were changed by loss.
“I’m a bit fuzzy, so I’ll jump in the shower and then come join you.” Eventually I plan to get my own place, but for now there’s comfort in the predictability of routine.
“Perfect.” She returns her attention to the TV.
I mouth the joke I’ve heard a million times as I make my way upstairs, a smile on my face. I hear low music coming from my sister’s room as I pass, so I knock.
“Come in!” she calls out.
I peek my head in the door. Her room is decorated much like one would expect from a college student. One wall is covered in movie and band posters, another has a whiteboard-corkboard combination affixed to it. Over her desk are four peelable wall calendars, her assignments color-coded for each class and marked by due date. Her double bed sits in the corner, piled with throw pillows that complement the dark blue comforter. The only remnant of her childhood is her stuffed cat, Pumpkin, which was a birthday present from our dad, given to her the year before he died.
Hattie’s long hair is the same as mine, thick and wavy, but it’s a dark chestnut brown instead of auburn. And like me, she often wears it up in a ponytail. But that’s where our similarities end. While I’m softer, like our mom, Hattie is tall and lean, with striking features. Somehow she always manages to look put together, even in a pair of ratty sweatpants.
She spins around in her computer chair and stretches her arms out and over her head, yawning widely. She slaps a hand over her mouth. “Yeesh. Sorry about that.” She glances at the clock on her nightstand. “You’re getting in late.” Her eyes light up. “Did you have a hot date?”
I roll my eyes and motion to my outfit. “Does this look like date-appropriate attire?”
She shrugs. “Not really, but you never know. Leopard print is all the rage. Working late then?”
I lean against her doorjamb. “I had to meet a new cat and his human.”
She makes a disappointed face and motions to her desk, which
is stacked with books. “One of us needs a social life, and I’m too busy with school for dating, which means you need to step up to the plate.”
This is a frequent conversation that doesn’t change. I’m busy running a business, and she’s busy with classes. I cross over and sit down on the edge of her bed, picking up Pumpkin. I run my fingers over the satin on the inside of his ear, worn with time and love. “The last couple of guys I’ve dated haven’t exactly made me want to jump back into the dating pool.”
“Are you taking about Microdick Mick or the basement gamer?”
“Both.” I grimace. “And let’s never say Mick’s name aloud again.”
We went out on a handful of dates about six months ago. He was nice to look at, and I’m embarrassed to admit that I suffered through a few extra dates hoping that the conversation would improve. I’m even more embarrassed to admit that I ended up back at his house hoping that the chemistry was better than the conversation. Unfortunately, he had the finesse of a horny teenage boy, and, well . . . it didn’t get better from there. Needless to say, that was the end of Mick.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have brought him up. I know that whole situation was pretty traumatic.”
“Hence the reason I’m not all that keen to get back on the horse and ride.” I point a finger at her. “I mean that figuratively and metaphorically. Also, you’re the one in college, which, if you were unaware, is full of single people looking for a date.”
“Guys in college are immature.” She flips a pen between her fingers. “And going to a keg party is not my idea of a date. I’m hoping that once I’m out in the real world I’ll meet someone with an actual job and life goals that extend beyond leveling up in
Genshun Impact
.”
“I don’t know how much that changes after college.”
The guy I dated after He Who Shall Not Be Named was a prime example of that. When I arrived at his house to pick him up for our second date, his mother answered the door and basically begged me to never dump her son. Then she took me down to his apartment in the basement. It smelled like feet and cheese, looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in . . . ever, and he’d been sitting on his futon, game controller in one hand, the other tucked down the front of his pants, looking like he hadn’t showered or shaved in several days, yelling agitatedly at the screen and then his mother for interrupting.
I turned around and walked right back up those stairs. I later found out that his mother was the one who set up and monitored his profile. And that he spent ninety percent of his time playing video games and the other ten percent sleeping.
It was the last time I used an online dating app.
I nod to Hattie’s computer screen. “What are you working on?”
“An essay for one of my classes. It’s on the dry side, but if you don’t mind looking it over later and giving it the red pen treatment, I would be super grateful. This professor is a stickler for grammar and annotations, so I want to make sure it’s in good shape.”
“I can absolutely have a look. Just tell me when you’re ready, and I’ll get out my trusty red pen for you.”
“Is Mom watching TV?” Hattie’s expression shifts, and for a moment she looks sad.
“Yup. I’m going to shower and then join her, but I can work on your essay while she and I hang out.”
“I don’t know how you can handle watching the same shows all the time.”
I push up off the bed. “It’s background noise.”
She sighs. “I guess, but you’d think at some point she’d want some variety. I feel like we’re all kind of stuck in this loop on repeat.”
I squeeze Hattie’s shoulder, aware that we feel differently about this. I make a joke to defuse her sadness. “Maybe when Blu-ray players are obsolete.”
She rolls her eyes. “I can just see her scouring eBay for all the old ones and hoarding them.”
“I’m cat sitting for a semi-hoarder now.” I change the subject because this conversation about our mom always makes me uneasy.
“What do you mean semi-hoarder? I didn’t realize there was an in-between.”
“It’s more . . . a lot of clutter. Or collections of things. You know those porcelain dolls Grandma Hart used to collect?”
Hattie makes a face and shudders. “The dresser in the spare room was always full of them. It felt like they were watching me sleep.”
“You always ended up in bed with me when we had to stay there.” I smile fondly at the memory.
“And you made us sleep foot to head.” Her tone is laced with accusation.
“So you wouldn’t breathe in my face. It was a twin bed. There wasn’t much room, and you move around a lot. A foot in the face is better than you breathing directly up my nose.” Hattie is also a cuddler, so she was always basically pressed against me.
“Whatever. So, more about this semi-hoarder.” She makes a go-on motion.
“The house is full of knickknacks, and the cat likes to knock them on the floor. It makes the clutter that much more cluttery.”
“So kind of like the inside of your purse?” Hattie arches a brow.
Considering the number of pens and lip balms that ended up on Miles’s mom’s driveway, it’s hard to argue, but I defend myself anyway. “Worse than my purse by a long shot.”
She narrows one eye at me. “You’re blushing. Why? What happened?”
“Nothing.” I bite my lips together.
“Something happened. Was it the new cat and their human?” Her eyes light up. “Is the human a guy? A cute guy?”
“It doesn’t matter if he’s cute. He’s a jerk, and our introduction was the kind of embarrassment you don’t really recover from.” Especially when my tripping was followed by him insulting his mother’s cat and tackling me to the floor.
“Embarrassing how?” She grabs my hand and pushes me back toward the bed. “You need to spill it. Your face tells me there’s a story.”
I blow out a breath, aware she’ll barricade me in her room until I spill the beans. “Remember your first day of high school, when I tripped up the steps in front of the entire football team between first and second period?”
Hattie’s eyes go wide and her cheeks tint with secondhand embarrassment. As it is, the memory makes me want to crawl under a blanket forever. “Please tell me this cat’s human wasn’t one of those football players.”
I hug Pumpkin to my chest. “No. Thank catness.” I never lived down that moment. Not for the rest of my high school career. Every time I saw one of those guys in the hall, my face would burst into flames. Thankfully, my long hair was able to act as a shield and a veil, but it didn’t stop me from hearing their snickers and little jabs. “But I did trip over the curb and fall flat on my face.”
“Oh no. I’m so sorry. Did it get better after that? Was he at least nice about it? Did he help you up?”
“Eventually. Sort of. But then he ruined it all by being a dog person.” I purse my lips; his disdain for Prince Francis is grating on me. “And then he tackled me, so the whole helping me up was kind of wiped out by that.”
“Why in the world would he tackle you?”
I give her the abridged version. “You see what I mean, though? He’s definitely not a cat person. You know how different dogs are than cats. Dogs want your approval; cats want your submission.”
Hattie chuckles. “That is the truth. Too bad about the cutie human being a jerk. Maybe he was just having an off day?”
“Maybe, but he was lobbing an awful lot of nasty names at the poor cat.” Not that it matters. I won’t have to deal with the cat hater for long.
I leave Hattie to finish her essay while I wash away a day of cats, then heat up some dinner. The salad is wilted, but not so bad that it’s inedible. I grab a glass of water and head to the living room, where a TV tray has already been set up for me on the couch next to the chair.
“Perfect timing—the commercials just came on. Tell me all about your day.” Mom lowers the volume, and I have her undivided attention for two full minutes before the show resumes. I give her the CliffsNotes version of my day, omitting Miles, because any time I mention a man who might be in my age range, Mom automatically assumes he’s dateable. And Miles, while nice to look at, does not have the personality to match.
She hmms and says
that’s nice
in all the right places, then we go back to watching
Two and a Half Men
as soon as the commercials end. My heart aches when one of my dad’s favorite cheesy jokes comes through the TV, my mom reciting the punch line along with the character, and we both chuckle along with the laugh track.
I eat my dinner, waiting for the next commercial break before I ask about her day. At ten we switch to news, and I work on editing Hattie’s essay while the newscasters impart today’s tragedies. By the time I’m done giving the essay the red pen treatment, it’s after eleven.
I have an early start tomorrow, so I get ready for bed. I wait until
I’m snuggled under my covers before I check for new messages. My comforter is a quilt with a cat print on it, obviously.
I’m surprised to find several from Miles.
Miles:
Hi Kitty. Sorry this is so late, and I’m sorry again about tackling you. I’m honestly not in the habit of knocking over women with water guns. Real ones maybe. Situationally dependent.
Miles:
[Cringe face gif]
Miles:
[football tackle gif]
Miles:
Maybe too soon for the tackle gif? I can’t unsend that.
Miles:
I’ve emailed info about PF’s schedule. My mother wasn’t in the mood to discuss his needs, but I’ve cobbled together what I know, which is not much. I’ll be in touch later this week, and you can always reach me at this number. I hope PF is on his best behavior, but I’m unsure what that looks like, or if tossing trinkets off shelves is his jam. Signing off before this becomes an actual novel. ~ Miles
I lie in bed, frowning as I read the text messages through twice more. The thing about text messages is that I can’t read the tone. He could be apologizing only because he needs my help. I have a rug burn on my cheek.
I’m also irritated by the slightly endearing quality of his messages. But I’m probably reading too much into the apology. If he was a grandpa who tackled me, would I have taken the job? I’m even more irritated by the fact that the answer to that is probably
no. I let his pretty veneer influence my decision. And he’s a dog person who doesn’t like cats to boot. We might as well be from different planets.
I move on to my email and read over the one he sent me. He wasn’t kidding about the information being scant. Most of the questions I sent him have the “I don’t know” emoji attached to them. I do not want to find that cute.
What he does know is that Prince Francis loves bacon and cereal marshmallows—so odd—hanging out on a lap, and wet food over dry, and when he’s really mad, apparently he’ll poop in shoes. It’s good information, even if there isn’t a lot of it. I’ll be able to figure out the rest as I go.
I barely resist the urge to send him a cute cat gif in response, which he probably won’t appreciate anyway, and instead go with:
Kitty:
Usually when I get tackled, it’s by my neighbor’s giant Saint Bernard. On the upside, at least you didn’t lick my face.
I set my phone on the nightstand and close my eyes. I roll to my right side, then cringe at how sore my elbow is. From being tackled. Ugh, stupid, pretty cat-hating dog lover.