Page 102 of Her Sloth

“Ouch,” he says, rubbing his face.

“He likes it rough,” I say as I walk towards the entrance to the house with the small front porch and my loved ferns in front.

“Tommy, are you home?” I shout into the house.

“Yeah!” he shouts back.

“Are you clothed?” I ask, because from Luke’s red cheeks I’m sure they were busy doing other things.

“On it,” he says, and I roll my eyes. “You were earlier than expected.”

“Let’s get to the terrace,” I tell Cass, who has wide eyes and stares at me completely flabbergasted.

“Here,” I tell her as I grab a beer from the outside fridge. “That hanging chair is the best.”

She looks at it, looks at the view into the Topanga Mountains, at me.

“Relax,” I tell her and take her hand to close it around the beer bottle because she seems not to adapt as well as I hoped to surprise trips.

A meow at our feet.

“Throttle,” I say, pointing at my cat brushing itself against Cass’s leg, checking her out.

“You have a cat?”

“Cat distribution system,” I say, shrugging. “He was as lost as me.”

She picks him up.

“He’s old. Doesn’t hear that much anymore. Pees onto everything. But I love him. He’s family.”

“Are we celebrating?” asks Tommy silently in my ear as he hugs me from behind.

“Maybe,” I say, and add a bit louder, “depends on whether this one gets a shock from too much clean air or wants to stay or —” I point at Cass.

Her eyes dart over to me where Tommy and I are sniggering. People from New York aren’t made for L.A., let alone the nature here in Topanga.

“We’ll make her,” he says, only for my ears.

She cuddles Throttle, and Tommy says hi to her. There is awkward superficial talk between them until they dive into cars and are completely immersed.

It’s a moment of peace, and I am realizing how tired I am.

My body is still exhausted, and I feel the need to sit down. She is with me in one second, immediately noticing what is going on.

“Everything okay?”

“Yes,” I say. “Was a long day; I’ll sit, you talk.”

“Sit down there,” she says and navigates me onto the lounge chairs under the old oak tree I had the terrace built around.

I sit down. She sits down with me, a concerned look on her face.

“I’m okay,” I say.

“You don’t look okay.”

“I am,” I tell her and lie down on her lap, on the side that wasn’t burned by the flames, and look into nature.