Page 58 of Travis
“Thank you.”
Lark turned to me. “It’s nice to meet you. Few people get past this man’s porch. I usually need animals to do it. You must have something I don’t.”
“Well, I broke in the first time. So… probably not the route you would want to go anyway.”
She grinned, and it was the kind of grin that made you want to tell her things. Open and uncomplicated and completely genuine.
“Well,” she said, holding the box out toward Travis, “since your plate just got a little less full, you’ve got room for these three.”
She didn’t wait for an answer. She put the box in Travis’s hands and pulled a folder from under her arm. “Feeding schedule, what to watch for, my number in case anything seems off. They’re eating on their own but they still need monitoring.”
Travis looked down at the box. Looked at me. Looked back at Lark.
“Take care of my kittens,” Lark said. Then, softer, her eyes on me: “Take care of each other.”
She was down the porch steps before Travis could respond to that, into the rental car, taillights disappearing down the drive. Travis closed the door and locked it and stood with his hand on the deadbolt for a moment longer than necessary.
“You were supposed to stay out of sight.”
“I know.”
He looked at me. I looked back. Neither of us blinked, and neither of us pretended that what I’d just done was an accident.
“She won’t say anything,” I said.
“No. She won’t. But it was still a risk.”
“You were about to distance yourself from a friend because of me. Say no, when you would’ve otherwise said yes. I wasn’t going to let that happen.”
He carried the box into the kitchen, overlooked the cold dinner plates and the saltshaker still sitting in its careful neutral zone, and set it on the kitchen table.
Three kittens. One solid black, one gray striped, one white with orange patches. All oversized ears and wide uncertain eyes. The black and the gray were huddled together in the corner of the box. The white one was attempting to climb the cardboard wall with a determination that far exceeded its physical capabilities.
We sat back down. The pasta was cold and neither of us reached for it. The box sat between our plates like a strange centerpiece, and the sounds coming from it were small and insistent and impossible to ignore.
I reached into the box and picked up the climber. It fit in one hand, a warm weight with a racing heartbeat and claws that immediately hooked into my sleeve. I settled it in my lap, and it turned twice, kneading the fabric of my jeans, and then began its next expedition. Up from my lap to the table edge. Front paws on the surface, back legs scrambling, and then it was up and moving with the unsteady confidence of something that had no idea it could fall.
It walked directly through Travis’s plate.
Small white paw prints in cold marinara sauce. Across the pasta, over the rim, and onto the table, leaving a trail of tiny red marks on the surface. The kitten sat down in the center of the table and licked one paw with complete self-possession.
The laugh came out of me before I could catch it. Not a polite sound. Not the controlled, appropriate response I’d been offering since the gym. A half snort/half cackle that pulled my shoulders forward and crinkled my eyes shut and felt likesomething I’d been holding too tight had slipped out of my hands.
I opened my eyes.
Travis wasn’t looking at the kitten. He was looking at me. And for the first time in two days, he didn’t look away.
He smiled.
