Page 24 of The Magic We Made

Don’t turn around.

That’s what I tell myself.

Keep walking right into the house and shut the door. Don’t turn around for one last look. A last look would ruin a truly epic exit, a total mic-drop moment.

I’m not accepting new patients at this time.

That conversation went so fantastically well, better than I could ever even have imagined. When I obliterated him with the photos of the footprints? And hit him with the definition of hypnagogic? I couldn’t have asked for a better reaction.

So why can’t I leave it at that?

Because I’m physically incapable of doing so. It’s my genetic destiny: no Giovanni can ever leave anything well enough alone.

So as I pull open the front door, I turn my head slightly—just slightly—to see how Ash Merit is taking my rejection...

And I see the cat rolling over on its back in front of him, begging for belly rubs.

What the—

I’ve been trying to get that cat to come out and ask me for belly rubs—or any kind of recognition at all—forweeks.And instead it comes out forAsh Merit?

No. Noway.

“I don’t believe this.” I’m already stomping back down the porch steps. Well, not stomping exactly, because I don’t want to scare the cat back into its hidey-hole. But I’m walking very firmly. “How did you—”

“I told you.” Ash doesn’t look surprised to see me back in the yard. If anything, he looks pleased. And who wouldn’t with a sweet little cat fawning all over him? “I’m a cat whisperer.”

“Awhat?”

“A cat whisperer. You know, like a horse whisperer, only with cats. They love me.”

“You did not tell me that. You told me lost things always find you.”

“Well, that’s part of it. Only I don’t think this little girl is lost. She seems to be right where she wants to be.”

I’m too stunned to make words. The cat isn’t scared. It isn’t crying or trying to claw him. It’s butting its head against him, its yellow eyes wide, probably because it’s as startled as I am by its sudden capitulation.

Then it looks at me... and opens its mouth to utter a single high-pitched inquisitive meow, as if asking me the exact same question I’m asking myself: What the hell is going on?

I stare back at it speechlessly, because I have no idea.

“What a good girl,” Ash says, now sitting cross-legged in my yard, the tiny cat stretched out in the dirt before him, its tail curled like a question mark. “What are you going to name her?”

“Name her?” I can’t believe any of this is happening—the cat, the approaching storm, Ash Merit having some kind of secret superpower over cats. Where is this storm even coming from? It hasn’t rained for weeks but it’s getting ready to do sonow, at the exact moment the cat I’ve been attempting to catch has finally come out—forAsh Merit?Ash Merit, who suddenly thinks he’s an expert on feline behavior and anatomy?“How do you know it’s a girl?”

“Look at that belly. That’s a pregnant cat belly if I ever saw one.” And then he puts his hand on the cat’s belly and gently rubs it—and the cat doesn’t object.

If a stranger had done that to Violet, she’d have degloved him.Thiscat squirms happily in the dirt, asking for more belly rubs, andpurring.

I’ve never seen anything like this.

“Are you knocked up?” Ash is talking to the cat, but not in the high-pitched voice many of us—myself included—use when speaking to animals, because studies have shown that cats, at least, respond better to a baby voice. It’s his normal voice, but the cat is paying rapt attention anyway. “You look like all you need is a few good meals and a decent roof over your head. And I’m pretty sure this nice lady here is going to give you all of that.” He smiles up at me, as innocently happy as the cat he’s petting. “You are, aren’t you? You’re not going to dump her off at the shelter.” It’s a statement, not a question.

“Never.”

But again, I’m not about to admit the whole truth to Ash Merit: that I’ve had my laundry room set up for weeks for this cat, complete with a brand-new litter box and food bowls, in the hope I might be able to lure her inside.

Oh, and that I already have a name picked out for her: Daisy. That’s how much of a dork I am. I’ve already named the stray cat that’s been living under my porch, and I didn’t even know she was female, let alone possibly pregnant. I chose “Daisy” because flower-themed names were always my dad’s favorite—he wanted to call me Violetta, but thankfully Mom wouldn’t let him, so I called my last cat Violet in his honor.