Page 36 of Kitten

“You know. She had to go to a treatment center.”

“What for?”

“Anxiety, depression. She did in-patient for two weeks.”

“And they fixed her?” I tried to keep my voice uninterested.

“She’s better now, yeah.” James sipped his coffee. “But she had to move out of the city, and she’s been living with her parents since. Which is tough. If you stay in that environment, you get stuck.”

The conviction in his voice made it clear he’d thought about this before. It was the same tone he used when we discussed the student suicides on our first night in Holme, like he’d thought long and hard about it once, then arrived at everything a person needed to know about happiness. I felt myself nodding without reason. “So what does she do, then?”

“I’m trying to get her to apply for this MFA program she’s had her eye on since college. There’s actually a whole bunch of programs she’d excel at. She’s really smart. Being back in school, learning for learning’s sake, would be good for her. The structure, right? And the accountability.”

“I meant, what does she do day-to-day?” A seed lodged itself in a back molar, evading the run of my tongue.

James had to think. “I don’t know. I guess, not much. That’s the problem. She has all these ideas, but she never follows through. And her parents don’t help, they just enable her. Ever since she was a kid, they’ve ignored her, thrown money at her, paid for these treatments and retreats. What she really needs is for somebody to see her, help her find her path.”

I thought of Isabelle’s pale and winsome face, a doll in a doctor’s room. There was an elegance to this image of her suffering that made me feel sorry for her, but just a little envious, too. I looked at my reflection in the window and was disappointed to see the same person I’d always been looking back. I’d grown up with barely a witness, and none of my experiences could harden into material, become important enough for breakfast conversation. The things that made me cry—being dumb at dinner parties, not enjoyingschool—were small, unworthy things, childlike petulances that demanded kisses on Band-Aids, not professionally locked doors.

“I’m not like that,” I said. “You’ve miscalculated my personality.”

“I wasn’t suggesting that you’re the exact same. Just that you might be able to become friends.”

I finished the pancakes, even though I was already full. Then I felt nauseated and excused myself to the bathroom, where I angled my cheek under the tap and let the water run until the sensation no longer registered. By the time I was out, James had paid the bill. I didn’t recognize him in his sweats, standing by the door with his back to the room. He grabbed my shoulder as I walked past. I yanked him off.

“What are you doing?” he said. “It’s me.”

I apologized. “I guess I wasn’t expecting to be touched.”

It was easier to lie than to admit that, for a moment, I believed he was a stranger. James put his hands into the pockets of his sweatshirt. I wanted then for him to touch me, but it didn’t feel right to ask.

—

For our last meal, Jamesmade seafood pasta with fresh mussels bought from the fishmonger. The recipe involved a lot of chopping up of things. Garlic, parsley, tomatoes. He grew annoyed with himself at the end because he’d forgotten the chilies.

We had an hour to kill before he had to drive back to the city. James turned on the fireplace and we sat on the couch. I nursed the leftover white wine James used in the saucewhile Silver snaked between our ankles. When he wasn’t looking, I dipped my finger in my glass and waved it to the side. She rose to lick it, her tongue warm and scratchy. Then she stuffed her head into the glass and lapped ferociously.

“Hey.” James touched my face. Somewhere in the room, a fly buzzed. “I’m going to miss you in the next few days.”

“I’m going to miss you, too.”

Silver coughed and jumped onto my lap.

“We have some time,” said James, then he put his hand on my neck. “Do you want to?”

I looked down at Silver. Her eyes were narrowed in contentment.

“Um,” I said. “What about her?”

James carried Silver out of the room before I could protest. Her face blinked in the gap of the door before it closed.

“Thanks,” I said, though I wanted her company more than I wanted sex. “It felt perverted to me.”

James took off my shirt. The room was cold, and the heat of the fireplace flickered unevenly over my chest. I raised my arms to cover myself.

“You’re cold.” James ran his fingers along my goosebumps. I nodded, feeling somewhat virginal. His body was warm and firm. James continued to undress me. I realized I was letting something happen to me, something that I didn’t want but didn’t feel like stopping, either. The fly buzzed louder. I reached to slap my ear.

I pictured Silver alone on the other side of the house, where my new tin of paints sat unopened on the kitchen table. Thinking about the paints flushed me with misery.James’s voice had remained tender, even as he insisted on buying them. I couldn’t blame him. I let him pay, I didn’t even bring my wallet. Had I always been this way?