Page 22 of Boulder's Weight

She's not what I expected for an old lady—no leather, just simple jeans and a flowy top with the café's logo embroidered on the pocket.

But there's something about the way she carries herself that speaks of confidence, of knowing exactly who she is and where she belongs.

"You're getting good with the register," she comments as I count out my drawer. "Faster than the last girl I hired."

"Thanks," I say, genuinely pleased at the compliment. "I've worked in cafés before. The routine's pretty similar."

Astra laughs as a tabby weaves between her ankles, nearly tripping her. "But I bet your last place didn't have these little monsters to contend with."

I smile, watching as the cat—Jasper, according to his collar tag—stretches up along the counter. "I don't mind them. They're... calming."

Astra's eyebrow raises slightly. "You strike me as a cat person."

"What gave it away?" I ask, reaching out to scratch Jasper behind the ears.

"The way you don't try to control them. You let them come to you on their terms." She gives me an appraising look. "Not everyone gets that."

Her words remind me of my conversation with Boulder the other morning—cats on their terms versus needy dogs.

I push the thought away, not wanting to dwell on the night we shared.

The morning passes in a blur of customers, coffee orders, and occasional cat interventions.

I fall into the rhythm easily—measuring beans, steaming milk, making small talk with regulars who are curious about the "new girl."

I give them the sanitized version of my story: just moved from the States, looking for a change of scenery, loving Mexico so far.

Each lie comes easier than the last.

I've been Kelsey long enough now that sometimes I almost forget that's not my real name.

During a dead spot in the day, Astra shows me around the cat play area—a separate room where customers can pay extra to spend time with the adoptable rescues.

It's designed with floor-to-ceiling cat trees, tunnels hanging from the ceiling, and colorful bean bags for human seating.

"I make all the furniture myself," Astra explains, showing me a scratching post wrapped in sisal rope. "It lasts longer that way. Those cheap store-bought ones fall apart in no time."

I run my hand over the craftsmanship, impressed. "This is amazing work."

"Thanks," she says, genuine pride in her voice. "Python—my husband—thinks I spend too much time online shopping, but it’s well worth it."

"I can see that," I say, understanding the need for activities that quiet the mind.

"I've seen some of your doodles on the order pad," Astra mentions casually. "You're pretty talented."

I feel heat rise to my cheeks. I didn't realize anyone had noticed my mindless sketching during breaks. "Just passing time."

"We feature local artists on our walls," she continues, gesturing to the paintings hanging throughout the café. "If you ever want to show some of your work..."

The offer catches me off guard. "Oh, I don't... I mean, I haven't actually created anything real in a long time."

"Well, the offer stands. Sometimes putting your art out there is the best way to reclaim it for yourself."

I nod, touched by the gesture but knowing I can't risk that kind of visibility.

Anything that could connect Kelsey to Cady Warlow is too dangerous.

As the afternoon passes, I find myself drawn to one particular cat—a skittish tabby who stays hidden in a corner, watching the world with wary green eyes.

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