Chapter Seven: That Escalated Quickly
chapter seven
THAT ESCALATED QUICKLY
Kitty
A
fter five days of caring for Prince Francis, I can conclude that a clean litter box doesn’t make a lick of difference where his destructive behaviors are concerned. Which means I was right about the real issue being the lack of snuggle time and missing his human.
Miles is back from his trip, and I’m meeting him at his mother’s house so we can go over a plan of care for Prince Francis. I’m also hoping to get a bit more information on how long I’ll be making double daily visits. Constant cat care can be costly, and currently I’m giving him my short-term fee, but if I’ll be checking in on Prince Francis for an extended period, I’ll adjust to my long-term rates.
Money conversations always make me nervous. I love what I do, so much so that I would do it for free. But that’s not savvy business practice, and I can’t earn a living on smiles and love. Plus, I help my mom with the household expenses, and I’m trying to
squirrel money away so one day, apparently in the next two years, I can buy a place of my own.
I turn down Pebble Street and park in front of Prince Francis’s house. Miles’s car is already in the driveway. I take a deep breath and tamp down the surge of irritation that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I’ve texted Miles with updates on Prince Francis while he’s been away, as I generally do with all my clients, sending daily photo updates—upon his request, which surprised me. At least until I learned they were for his mother. I keep my messages brief and to the point. Especially since I’ve had that stupid football dream basically every night. The most annoying part is that every time I have it, the outfits I start out in become increasingly outlandish. Last night I was wearing skimpy lace lingerie and a helmet, and that was it. I will admit, Dream Me rocked that lingerie.
I’ve never been physically attracted to someone I strongly dislike before, and I find it extra conflicting. My body doesn’t seem to care that he’s a dog-loving, cat-hating jerk. It seems to think all that matters is ticking my physical attraction boxes.
“You can do this. You can handle dealing with an attractive jerk. Pretend he’s Mr. Potato Head if you need to. Remember, he’s probably the kind of guy who toots and blames it on his dog. Also, do not draw your water gun without warning this time. And if he tackles you again, it’s probably a sign that you should stop caring for his mother’s cat, no matter how much you like him. The cat, obviously.” My recurring dream comes back in annoying flashes. “Or maybe it means he wants to make out
with you.” I frown at my reflection in the rearview mirror. “This whole opposites-attract fantasy stops here, Kitty.”
I leave the safety of my car and avoid tripping on the curb on the way to the front door. Today I knock, because Miles is here. I hear a shout from inside the house to let myself in, so I do.
I find Miles in the living room standing in front of the fireplace, several boxes at his feet. He’s wearing yellow rubber kitchen gloves, which seems odd, until he picks up a gnome and a head pops up between a Christmas gnome and an Easter one. Prince Francis hisses, then swats Miles’s hand. He grabs the gnome with two clawed paws and bites its butt. I bite my lip to stifle a laugh.
“Seriously man, you need to chill out.” Miles releases the gnome.
Prince Francis takes the opportunity to wrap his entire body around the little gnome and rolls onto his back, doing some bicycle kicks, which in turn knocks three gnomes off the mantel. Prince Francis nearly falls off the ledge himself, but catches his balance before he joins the gnomes on the floor.
“Some cat is in a frisky mood,” I observe. I’m talking to Prince Francis, not Miles, but he must not realize that.
“Every time I try to put something in a box, he attacks me or the object. I tried to corral him into one of the bedrooms, but he’s about as herdable as a squirrel. It’s making this whole packing shit pretty damn difficult.” He starts to run a hand through his hair, but stops when he remembers he’s wearing rubber gloves.
Packing indicates moving, which means the situation with his
mom might be more serious than I realized. “Is your mother okay?”
“It’s looking a lot like she’ll need full-time care. The doctors are saying her dementia is far too advanced for her to keep living alone.” His shoulders curl forward, and he strips one glove off his hand and wipes it on his jeans, then pinches the bridge of his nose. “Sorry, my mother’s mental state isn’t your problem.”
As frustrating as dealing with Miles has been, I do have a heart, and based on his expression, his seems bruised over all of this. I set aside my feelings and try to put myself in his shoes. Taking care of his mother’s cat while she’s in the hospital, not knowing what the situation is going to look like when she’s released. Maybe his disdain for Prince Francis has more to do with the situation than it does the actual cat. “That can’t be an easy thing to deal with.”
He flips the gnome over in his hands. “I didn’t realize that someone her age could decline this quickly. I thought maybe she could have a personal support worker stop by a few times a week, but the doctors are telling me she’s likely to wander off again. She’s lucky the police found her and something more serious didn’t happen.” He drops the gnome in the box. “Anyway, I started looking at homes yesterday, but there’s a lot to take into consideration. And I can’t have this freaking cat knocking crap off the shelves all the time. He’s bound to step on broken glass, and that’s another expensive problem to fix.”
My heart was getting melty until that last statement.
He blows out a breath. “I realize that I sound like a d-bag when I say things like that. And you should probably consider
raising your rates since I’m using you like a freaking therapist, but I went to the hospital this afternoon and they gave me the news, and then I came here and found this mess.”
And I’m back to being melty. If I were in the same predicament as Miles, I don’t know that I’d present the best version of myself either. So I set aside my negative feelings and press my empathy button. “The therapy session is on the house. This time, anyway.”
He gives me a sidelong glance and smirks a little.
Prince Francis does a butt wiggle and prance, then launches himself onto the arm of the couch and bounces to the floor, weaving between my feet with a purr.
Miles gives Prince Francis the stink-eye. “Oh I see how it is. A pretty lady shows up, and you’re all romance and seduction.”
I choke back a laugh and make a squeaky sound instead.
Do not get all swoony over an offhand compliment, Kitty.
“He associates me with food and pets, and he associates you with change,” I explain. “It has nothing to do with romance and everything to do with food.”
“Maybe I should start bringing him snacks, so our mutual loathing comes down a few notches.” Miles sneezes into the crook of his arm.
I hold out a baggie full of treats. “It couldn’t hurt. Why don’t you give him some of these, and I can find some of his toys to distract him while you pack?”
His eyes flare, like he’s surprised by the offer. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”
He takes the baggie, and I tuck my hand back into the pocket of my cardigan. “I was planning to hang with Prince Francis anyway.” Besides, I’m not doing this for any reason other than Prince Francis’s well-being. At least that’s what I’m telling myself.
Prince Francis jumps up on his hind legs, claws digging into my jeans, until he realizes I’m no longer the holder of the treats. He redirects his affection, rubbing up against Miles’s leg and meowing loudly.
Miles opens the bag and makes a face, probably because the treats don’t smell all that great. Although dog food doesn’t smell any better. He crouches and holds out a treat in his palm, but leans away from Prince Francis, as if he’s expecting an attack.
Prince Francis paws at the treat a couple of times before he decides it’s safe, swats it to the floor, and gobbles it up. Then he meows and rubs himself on Miles’s leg again. “If I’d known it was this easy to win him over, I would have fed him treats from day one.”
“It might have made your life easier. Can I use one of these?” I motion to an empty box.
“Knock yourself out.” He makes a face. “Not literally, though.”
“That seems to be your strong suit, not mine.” I tamp down the memory of the dreams I’ve been having, where I’m the one doing the tackling, not Miles.
While I try to keep my mind from wandering to inappropriate places, Miles feeds Prince Francis another treat, and I check under the furniture for his toys.
I poke a few holes in the side of the box and use some twine
to create swinging toys for Prince Francis to play with. I also add catnip mice that I brought along today to give Prince Francis something to get excited about.
Once the cat play station is set up, I toss a couple of extra treats inside to entice Prince Francis. It does the trick, and a minute later he’s lying on his back, chewing on the catnip toy, meowing happily.
“They’re kind of like temperamental, slightly psychopathic dogs, aren’t they?” Miles stands with his hands on his hips, poking at his full bottom lip with his tongue. I really wish he were less attractive and also less cat intolerant. It would make being in his presence less frustrating.
“They’re not psychopaths. They’re independent.” I take a step toward the kitchen. “I should put out fresh food and change the litter box.”
“I already handled the litter. I was on the fence with how expensive that contraption is, but it’s way more convenient than managing it manually.”
“So you don’t think I’m trying to rip you off anymore?” I need to curb my catty comebacks. “The convenience factor is hard to beat, and it counts the number of times Prince Francis uses the litter, so you’ll know when it’s time to change it.” I motion to the shelves and soften my surly. “This looks like a big job to tackle on your own. Do you want some help?”
“It’s all right, I can handle it.” Miles bites the inside of his cheek, gaze darting from the box in front of me to the shelves.
“Mostly I’m offering because it would be safer for Prince
Francis if he’s not at risk of stepping on broken pieces.” So much for dropping my surly.
Miles rubs the back of his neck. “Right. Yeah. That makes sense.”
I grab an empty box and get started on the shelf to the right of the fireplace, full of dusty knickknacks. The awkward silence is making me uneasy, so I fill it with questions. “How was your trip? Did it go well?” I stifle a sneeze.
“Bless you. It was good. Our team won both games. It helps that one of Montreal’s key players is out with an injury, and that our center is self-aware and I had a chance to sit down with him and really go over his weak areas.”
“How did you end up as a data analyst for an NHL team? I didn’t even know that was a thing.” This is good. Maybe I’m better at small talk than I thought.
“Baseball has been doing it for a while, but the NHL is beginning to see the value in it. Sort of. I’m on a trial contract. I worked in the finance department for the Ontario Hockey League, and a perk is free tickets, so I’d go to all the games. I started seeing the patterns in the plays. Well,
started
isn’t quite accurate. When I played rec hockey, I picked up on the same things, and we’d always sit down after games and talk through how we could improve.” He waves a hand around in the air. “Anyway, long story short, my best friend is Toronto’s general manager’s assistant, and he suggested they bring me on this season to see if I could provide insight, so here I am. I just need to prove to the team that I’m worth keeping.”
I set a smiling otter in the box. “Wow. That’s a lot of pressure.”
He lifts a shoulder and lets it fall. “But if I help the team increase their overall scoring record, we get better ratings. That can sometimes help morale, and I get to keep doing this. I knew I wasn’t ever going to be able to play professionally, since I’m not really built for the sport.” He motions to his long, lean frame. “This way I get to work in the field I love and help the players reach their maximum potential.”
I can appreciate his enthusiasm for his job, because that’s how I feel about mine. And we both work in atypical roles. “What kind of credentials do you need for something like that?”
He sneezes and excuses himself before responding. “I have a degree in sports management and statistics. I geek out pretty hard over numbers. And occasionally I’ll get to travel with the team, like this past weekend, which is also cool. The rookie players are always exciting, because there’s so much room for upward trajectory.” He waves around a hand. “Anyway, I’m blathering on about this, and you’re probably just nodding and smiling to be nice.” He coughs into the crook of his elbow, following it with a double sneeze. “I took an antihistamine before I came here, but I think all the packing is probably disturbing a lot of dust and dander and making my allergies act up.”
“You’re allergic to cats?” That could easily explain his open disdain for the independent four-legged fluffballs.
“Every time I come here, I’m sneezing and coughing and my eyes end up red and watery.” He motions to his face and sniffles once. His eyes are a little red.
“Hmm. Usually sphynx cats are better for people with allergies, but everyone is different.”
“We never had cats growing up. But I have a Great Dane, and I’ve never had a reaction to him.”
“Oh wow. Danes are huge.” I like dogs well enough, but I’m a bit more partial to the smaller ones that can’t knock me over. “We only ever had cats in my house.”
“Wilfred is a big dog, but he’s a total marshmallow and would like to think he’s a lap dog. This taking care of a cat is a first for me.” He motions to Prince Francis, who is happily rolling around on the floor. “Anyway, tell me more about how you ended up as a cat whisperer. How does one realize that’s their calling?”
“It just sort of happened, I guess.” I lift a shoulder and let it fall. This is such a different side of Miles, and I wonder if we just got off on the wrong foot. Well, I know I sure did. “A friend was going away for a couple of weeks, and he asked if I would mind checking on his cat while he was gone. He actually asked me if I would house-sit, and he lived in a nice place downtown, close to a café my friend owns. I thought it would be kind of fun. Like a staycation. While they were gone, I taught their cat, Mario, how to use the toilet instead of the litter box.”
His eyebrows lift. “You can do that?”
“Sure. Despite popular belief, cats are trainable. With patience and the right motivation, you can teach them how to do almost anything. And these people lived on the twenty-second floor of a high rise, so getting rid of litter is a job, and it’s smelly in small spaces. Having a potty-trained cat eliminates that problem.”
“Do you think you could do that with this guy?” He points to Prince Francis, who is currently drooling all over the catnip mouse.
“Maybe. He just needs a motivator. I could see about starting that next week if you’re still going to need my help.” If his mom is moving into an assisted living facility, I might not be needed for much longer.
“Oh yeah, I guess we should talk about that. I don’t know how long it’s going to take to find the right place for my mom, and they’re already talking about moving her to a temporary facility.” He drops another gnome into the box.
“How do you mean?” Maybe I’ve been irrationally hard on this guy. He just started a new job, his mom is in the hospital, and now he has to find her a place to live. That’s a lot of stress. And he’s allergic to cats. If I was in the same boat, I might not find them quite so endearing either.
“They need the bed in the hospital ward, so if I don’t have a place for her, they’ll give her a room in a facility that has the right level of care until I can. Basically, she’s at the mercy of the system, and so am I.” He plucks another gnome from the mantel and a tumbleweed of dusty debris floats to the floor. He sneezes twice into his elbow. “Excuse me. So yeah, I’ll need your help.”
“Is it just you and your mom?” I can’t imagine what it would have been like to have lost my dad and not have my sister around for support. Even though she was only fourteen, at least I had her on my side, and I didn’t have to try to manage my brokenhearted mother alone.
“It’s just me, and my parents split up when I was thirteen. They don’t really speak, so it’s up to me to handle this.”
The more I learn about Miles, the more certain I am that I’ve misjudged him. “That makes it even more challenging, doesn’t it? Do you think your dad would help you if he knew how much work this all is?”
Miles sneezes into the crook of his arm again. “Excuse me.” He sneezes twice more, peels off a rubber glove, then pulls a perforated pill packet out of his shirt pocket and frees a tablet, swallowing it without water. “I’m not convinced it would be better to have his help on this. Not because he wouldn’t be willing to offer it, it’s just . . . complicated. When my parents split it was . . . tough. I ended up living with my dad because it was closer to the school I wanted to attend, and they had a great hockey program. But that hurt my mom, and she’s always been big on doing things herself and not asking for help, so it added another layer of difficulty. Anyway, all that is to say, it’s probably better for me to handle this rather than dredge up old hurts.”
He’s so alone in all of this. It reframes all our previous interactions and reminds me not to judge a book by its cover. “That’s a lot of responsibility to shoulder.”
He gives me a small smile and clears his throat. “I’ll get it sorted out. And it doesn’t hurt for you to have some background since you’re helping manage this guy.” He motions to Prince Francis, who is a drooly, happy mess on the floor.
“I’m happy to help in whatever way I can.”
“I appreciate that.” He coughs again, and this time it sounds
more like a wheeze. He tugs at the collar of his shirt, sucking in a breath that sounds painful.
“Are you okay?” I take a step closer, tipping my head back as I move into his personal space. He’s quite tall. I’m not short, but he’s long and lean, and I’m pretty much average in terms of height. “Do you have asthma? Do you have a puffer?”
“Not asthma.” He clears his throat again, sucking in another wheezing breath. “I think.”
Wheeze.
“I’m having.”
Wheeze-wheeze
. “An allergic reaction.”
Gasp.
“Can’t breathe.”
“Oh! Oh my God. Do you have an EpiPen?” I had a friend in high school with a peanut allergy, and we had to stab her more than once. It was terrifying.
He shakes his head.
“How can you have an allergic reaction to something that causes you to not be able to breathe and not have an EpiPen!” I belatedly realize that now is probably not the best time to scold him. “We need to get you to the hospital. Right now.” I shimmy up next to him and duck under his shoulder, wrapping my arm around his waist. His muscles flex under my fingers.
He stumbles, and I weave our way to the door.
When we get outside, he tries to suck in a deep breath, but again, it sounds like an elderly person trying to suck a thick milkshake through a too-small straw. At first we start toward my SUV, but then I think better of it. If he’s reacting to Prince Francis, putting him in a car loaded with cat dander and cat fur is a bad idea.
“We should probably take your car.” We stop in front of his
black Tesla. I tip my head up. “I’ve never been in an accident before. I promise I’m a safe driver, and I will take care of your steel baby, but I’d really like it if you survived today.” Especially since it seems my original disdain for him wasn’t quite so necessary. “Where are your keys?”
He inhales another labored breath and sags against me. I shift so he’s leaning on his car and pat his hip, over his pocket. I can feel the outline of his keys. I don’t ask permission, and jam my hand in there.
I find my face mashed into his side and my boob pressed against his ribs as I feel around for the key ring. I briefly graze something squishy and he grunts, but I manage to hook the keys with my pinkie. “Got em!” I shout into his side, then yank my hand free.
“Don’t.”
Gasp.
“Need.”
Wheeze.
“Them.” He opens the passenger door.
Well, that would have been good to know before I touched the head of his penis through the pocket of his pants. I’m not going to address the penis-elephant, though.
Ever.
I help him into the passenger seat, close the door, rush around the hood, and launch myself into the driver’s side. I’m very grateful that Miles backed in, so all I have to do is buckle up, push a button, and put the car in drive.
It only takes seven minutes to get to the hospital, although I did run a lot of stale yellows to make it happen. I pull into the emergency parking and get him inside. His wheezing has lessened
slightly since we left the house, which I’m taking as a good sign, but his eyes are red and puffy, and so are his lips. They’re usually quite full, but right now they look like they’ve been stung by a hive of bees.
I don’t want to leave him alone in the emergency room, but the nurse assures me they’re taking care of him, and I have to park the car so it doesn’t end up getting towed. I return a few minutes later, but he’s no longer sitting in intake. I rush up to the nurse’s station, frantic all over again. Flashes of memory from my teen years flicker through my mind and I shove them down. This isn’t the same. But still, they come, and I can’t help the question that never seems to go away, no matter how much time passes.
If I’d found my dad sooner, would we have gotten him to the hospital in time?
Maybe he would still be here and there wouldn’t be a huge hole in our family that belongs to him.
“Miss? Can I help you?”
I shake my head, pulling myself out of the memories and back into the present. “Oh. Yes. There was a man. Miles Thorn. I brought him in. He was in that wheelchair and now he’s not.” I point to the empty chair, then wring my hands.
She clicks on her keyboard for a few seconds that feel more like hours. “Oh yes, let me take you to him.” She rolls back her chair.
“Is he okay?”
“The doctors are with him now.”
I notice she doesn’t answer the question directly, and my panic ratchets up a notch or two.
I don’t really know Miles, not well, apart from the messages we’ve exchanged over the past week. But the conversation today was a lot less hostile on both sides, and I would like to have another one of those with him. I’m beginning to think he’s someone I might like to know. And the possibility that he may not be okay freaks me out. Logically, I’m aware that I’m in fatalist mode, and that I’m probably blowing this out of proportion, but until I see he’s okay, I don’t think I’m going to be able to calm myself down.
“You did the right thing by bringing Miles to the emergency room,” the nurse reassures me. She pulls back a curtain and there lies Miles, lips swollen, face blotchy, hooked up to machines, a needle in the back of his hand.
One of the doctors injects something into the drip bag. “You’ll be sleepy after this. We’ll monitor you for a few hours to make sure you’re okay before we give you the all-clear.”
“Okay,” Miles rasps, his gaze darting to me. “Hey.”
“Hey yourself.” I give him a small smile, then turn my attention back to the doctor. “Is Miles okay?”
“We’ll need to set up some blood tests to determine exactly how severe the allergy is, and we’ll prescribe an EpiPen in the meantime, but he had a serious allergic reaction. We want to make sure we know the exact cause so he can avoid future contact.”
“We were packing up some boxes in his mother’s house. She has a sphynx cat. I thought they were usually better for people with cat allergies, but maybe we disturbed all the dander in the carpet and that’s what he’s reacting to?”
“It’s possible.” The doctor nods. “But this is a severe reaction, so we’ll do some tests to confirm the allergy.”
Once the doctor is confident the reaction is under control, and Miles’s breathing is back to normal, he leaves to tend to other patients.
The nurse pats Miles on the shoulder. “The antihistamine is a strong one. It’ll probably knock you out.” She looks at me. “You’re welcome to stay and keep your boyfriend company, but you might want to grab a book or a magazine.”
“Oh, I’m not his girlfriend. I’m just . . . ”
His mother’s cat sitter
doesn’t seem like the right thing to say after what we’ve just gone through. “A friend.”
She glances between us and smiles. “Okay, well, I’ll let you two figure things out.”
She pulls the curtain closed behind her. I stand at the end of the bed. He’s so long his feet poke out of the bottom. He’s still wearing his socks, which have little bones on them again.
“You don’t have to stick around. I’ve already taken up more than enough of your time tonight.” He clears his throat and sniffles once.
“I don’t mind staying if you’d like some company.” And I won’t feel very good about myself if I leave him here on his own. “No charge, obviously,” I tack on with a cheeky smile.
His lips turn up in a slow smile. “My eyeballs already feel like there are weights attached to them.” He heavy blinks a couple of times. “I’ll probably pass out on you.”
“That’s okay. Unless you’d like me to go. Maybe I’m
exacerbating your allergy?” I’d say I don’t know why I’m so insistent about staying, but I do. I want to make sure he’s okay, and the only way to accomplish that is to hang around until he’s released. I glance down at my outfit. I’m wearing one of my Kitty Whisperer T-shirts, a long cardigan with a cat and ball of yarn pattern, and a pair of jeans. They’re relatively free of cat hair, but that doesn’t mean anything considering.
He’s silent for a few beats before he says, “I’d like it if you stayed.”