“What kind of girl would I be if I slept with you on our first date?”
We both know the answer to that.
If we were already in my apartment, he’d push harder, of course. Here on the landing he has no choice but to give in gracefully, so he chuckles and tries to pretend his face isn’t flushed with lust. “I know. But what kind of guy would I be if I didn’t try?”
In deference to my role, I don’t answer “A born-again Christian with sincere beliefs and a genuine respect for women?” but it’s a close one. Instead, I ask, “Will you call me this weekend?” and give him a little power back.
“Yeah, if I can. Weekends are pretty busy.”
“Sure. Well, I had a good time. Thank you again.”
He winks and gives a little wave as he backs away. I open my door and slip inside and feel confident we’ll be going out again soon.
CHAPTER 11
The nearest animal shelter is twelve blocks away, but it’s a gorgeous day for a walk, so I set off with enthusiasm. I’ve never had a pet before. Oh, my family cycled through a couple of mangy guard dogs chained in the front yard, but they were vicious and flea-ridden. Just another dreary part of my childhood landscape.
My future hasn’t become any more solid, but my determination has. I want a cat. And when it’s time to move back to Malaysia, I’ll deal with the issue then. It isn’t a real problem yet.
I pass close to the Italian place and make a detour thinking I can stop in later, but they’re not open for lunch. The neighborhood deteriorates further as I approach the shelter. I’m entering a quasi-industrial zone near the railroad tracks, and there aren’t many pedestrians around. I’m just considering reaching for my pocketknife when I see the shelter sign ahead and perk up. I can already hear dogs barking.
The parking lot is small and nearly full. Saturday must be a busy day for this place. As soon as I enter, I’m in the middle of two families with kids who are here to pick out dogs. I weave my way through their jumpy little bodies and approach the counter.
“I’m looking for a cat.”
The clerk is a pale young man who looks like he suffered a terrible haircut nine months ago and decided to never try again. He finishes writing something on a paper and sighs. “You’re looking for a cat you’ve lost?”
“No, I’d like to adopt a cat.”
“Okay. Cats are through there.” He points without once looking up at me. He’s being rude, so I steal a tiny metal dog figurine from the edge of his tall desk. I don’t want it; I just don’t like his attitude.
Turning in the direction he indicated, I push through the glass door, and the sounds of dogs and little kids fade to a low roar when the door closes behind me. I expect tiny cages, and there are lots of those, but most of the cats are portioned into group living for the day. Five or six cats wander rooms filled with carpeted trees to climb or sleep on. They don’t look miserable. Most seem perfectly content. Like me, they don’t need constant human contact.
I walk up and down the hallway, noticing which cats immediately rush to the gates and meow. They’re cute, but they are not the cats for me.
A small black cat sticks its paw through the metal grating, reaching for me. I touch the tiny pink pads of her foot, but then I move on down the short hallway. At the next partition, two cats are waiting for me. Two are asleep. The fifth cat watches from the middle of the floor, her golden eyes meeting my gaze with a haughty coolness. I like her immediately. I know I’m anthropomorphizing, but I’m sure she’s female because of the regal stretch of her neck and the occasional elegant flick of her tail. She has short gray fur that looks tipped with silver. There’s no question her body will be a soft, warm comfort.
I watch her. She watches me. She blinks slowly. Looks away. Then she yawns as if she’s bored with the whole situation. I grin at the way she stretches her body long and hard before rising to her feet to approach me.
Instead of coming all the way to the grate, she sits down six inches away. I press my fingers to the metal and she stretches out to smell my skin. After a moment’s investigation, she rubs her cheek against my fingertips in one quick stroke, then settles back on her haunches as if the interview is over.
She’s marked me, but she doesn’t need me.
I want her with all the fullness of my dark and twisted heart.
A door opens at the far end of the hall and a young Hispanic woman with a bouncy black ponytail rolls a mop pail into the space. Her name tag just says VOLUNTEER. “Hello! Did you want to see one of the cats?”
“I’ve found one I like. This gray one.”
The girl ditches her mop and hurries over. “Oh, that’s Bunny! She’s gorgeous.”
Bunny? Good God, the indignity this poor queen has suffered.
“Have you filled out the adoption paperwork?” she asks. When I shake my head, she claps her hands. “Then let’s get you started!”
Started? How much paperwork is involved in taking home a cat that no one else wants?
A lot, apparently. The paperwork isn’t a problem. I had to set up this false identity to get a job, and I kept it close enough to my true information that everything is easy to recall. The background check won’t show anything suspicious, but I’m intensely irritated that I can’t take the cat home right now. She’s mine.
But, mine or not, I have to wait until tomorrow so they can be sure I’m not running an international stray cat smuggling ring, I guess. I do my very best to act grateful for their careful stewardship when I just want to shove past this woman to grab my cat and go.
I pay $35 and tell myself this delay will give me a chance to buy what I need. The shelter has a printed sheet for what a “Good Cat Owner” should have on hand. They don’t have a handout for a “Bad Cat Owner,” so I take the offered paper and push through the exit door, hoping my cat won’t change her mind about me by tomorrow.
According to my phone, there’s a small pet store just a quick detour from the path home, so I head in that direction. The route takes me out of the way of the Italian restaurant and down a little tree-lined street where gentrification has crept in. Lots of people are eating brunch at outdoor café tables nestled under propane heaters.
I stop to gaze wistfully through a boutique window at a pair of black leather boots I’d love to own, but this Jane isn’t a knee-high, stiletto-heeled-boot kind of girl. Well, she might be that kind of girl in the bedroom if Steven tells her to slut it up a little and stop being such a cold fish all the time. But we won’t be together long enough to reach that point.
I’m busy imagining which of my old outfits would go best with these boots when I hear a man say my name. My actual name, including my real surname—not the fake one I’m currently using.
“Jane?” he calls more loudly. “Is that you?”
I’m so startled that I turn toward the voice instead of pretending not to hear. Damn it.
“Hey!” he says.
A man is approaching from a few doors down. He’s white, about my age, brown hair, average height. He extends his hand as if he’s trying to get my attention or stop my flight. I don’t recognize him until he smiles. That’s when I know him.
My kind aren’t easily alarmed, but I definitely feel surprised. “Luke?”
“It is you!” he says, seeming more delighted to see me than anyone else ever has been.
“Yes,” I say. “Hi.” His friendliness has cast me into an uncertainty I’m not used to. Luke is an old friend. Or something like that. We dated for a couple of months in college, just before I left Minneapolis for a summer internship before law school. I liked him just fine then, though I haven’t thought of him since. But now here he is.
He gathers me into a hug and I return the embrace even as I blink rapidly in confusion. It feels like I’ve been flung back into my past.
“What are you doing here?” he asks as he sets me back on my heels.
“Here? I just adopted a cat.”
He laughs. “No, I mean here in Minneapolis!”
“Oh. I . . . I’m working on a temporary project.”
“Temporary?”