Page 81 of You've Got Hate Mail
To watch her grow up and contemplate that she won’t be with me forever.
The idea that she’ll still meow now and again—that makes me happy.
She grins. “Yep! And I groomed myself. Like this.” She licks her hand, which is covered in dirt, then sticks her tongue out a few times, trying to wipe it off, but only getting more mud in her mouth.
“The gremlins!” Cricket cries. “Lavender, the gremlins are in your mouth! Quick, quick, wash them off!”
She dashes for the hose and adjusts the nozzle so it’s a gentle spray instead of the hard stream while Lavender follows her, sticking her tongue under the spray.
My throat clogs.
My eyes burn.
This ishome.
But it’s not safe.
And that breaks my fucking heart.
15
DANCE OF THE GLITTER PAW FAIRY
Cricket
I danceup the stairs from my little apartment to Heath’s house early Thursday morning, almost four weeks after I first arrived here, with one of my favorite songs in my head and my new favorite hand lotion rubbed into my skin up to my elbows, making me smell like a field of strawberry shortcake.
Yes, yes, I know strawberry shortcake doesn’t grow in fields.
But Lav and I played that it does yesterday.
Heath has been leaving the door unlocked for me, so I let myself into the upper part of the house and head to the kitchen, where I start coffee for both of us before going in search of Fluffy.
It’s nice to have a routine again.
Especially a routine in a warm, welcoming place.
There’s still a bit of tension with Heath—likely all in my head because of this stupid crush I can’t shake that gets a little worse every time I interact with him or watch him with Lav—but it’s better than the passive-aggressive sighs that my former roommate would make if my coffee machine was too loud or ifI hadn’t pulled my clean laundry out of the dryer fast enough for her liking, or, honestly, the simmering tension in the house I grew up in.
But Heath doesn’t sigh.
He doesn’t yell.
He doesn’t lecture, and he doesn’t tell Lavender to tone it down or play differently unless there’s a visible, immediate safety hazard in what she’s doing.
She’s getting the childhood I wish I’d had. A safe place to explore and pretend to her heart’s content.
As the coffee maker burps and bubbles, I locate the cat lying dramatically in front of her food bowl as the first rays of the new summer day peek through the gauzy curtains over the sink in the kitchen.
“Morning, sunshine,” I whisper.
She scowls at me, then meows mournfully.
I tilt my head.
Is she fluffier, or is she skinnier?
I can’t tell, but I think she’s fluffier today.
