Page 64 of Kitten

“It’s okay.”

“I don’t want to be this person,” he said. “I don’t enjoy it.”

“You deserve to feel upset.”

James’s eyes flashed. “If I hadn’t gone back to the city, she would still be here.”

“Yes,” I said. “Probably.”

“If you had only listened to me when I told you to lock the door.”

“Yes.”

“I can’t believe it,” he said. “All of this was so fucking preventable.”

“I don’t think that’s true. You couldn’t have known what I’d do.”

James sat on the couch, blinking at the ceiling. I waited for him to look at me, and when he didn’t, I looked up, too, the ceiling smooth save for a small crack on the right edge above the window. Just over half a year ago, I did not know who James was. I had not seen the sea or met his mother. The only cracks I recognized were the ones on my own ceiling.

“I don’t understand you,” James said. “I thought I did, but I don’t.”

“Maybe not,” I said. “But I didn’t let you.”

And it was with clearheaded relief that I took his hand,the hand I reached for when I could not reach my mother’s, the hand I guided around my life before either of us understood the error, our shared error, of assuming it was anything but a hand. It could hold mine tight, it could even lead me somewhere new, somewhere lovely, but it could not change my life. No, it was only a hand.

James walked to his desk and opened his laptop. The screen glowed white, illuminating his face like he’d just opened the blinds to a brilliant new day.

—

The days passed. James spentmost of them at work. In the evenings, we ate takeout in silence while watching TV. Part of me missed his homemade meals from Holme, the way I used to lie with Silver while James sat at our feet, flipping through cookbooks and bookmarking the pages. But mostly the idea of James scooping food onto my plate felt like a piece of life that belonged on the other side of the highway.

The physical desire we shared upon returning from Holme lingered in my body, tempered by our growing distance. I wanted to kiss his neck, to smell the roots of his hair, but James kept to his side of the bed, and I became newly self-conscious. I remembered the way I kissed him without thinking or warning at the Frick. What had beenwrongwith me back then?

My mother kept sending me money. Small amounts, around fifteen to twenty-five dollars at a time, but in such frequent dispatches I could be sure she wanted me to think of her. I was grateful, but unsure how to respond. I could tuck my tail and say thank you, but it was easier to let ourgentle and mutually maintained silence grow instead of ruining it with something as insecure as gratitude.

On Wednesday evening, while James was showering, his phone buzzed with a call from his mother. I let it go to voicemail. Then I swiped up. His password was the last four digits of his Holme zip code. My heart jumped. I couldn’t stop myself—I opened their messages.

Today 6:07 pm

Mom: Soo many leftovers from Marta’s. I can drop off tmrw

James: Hero! Yes please

Mom: How are u doing?

James: I’m ok

Arthur’s back. They’re not sure if they want to keep me on the team

Idk it’s a bit stressful

Don’t worry

Mom:Don’t stress. U’ll be fine

How’s Katie?

James: She’s fine