Page 13 of A Class of Her Own

He’d managed to fall into step next to me without me noticing. Strange. I was usually pretty aware of my surroundings.

“Then why did you brush it off?” I asked, ignoring the pleasure his compliment brought.

He slowed his steps to match mine and tucked his hands into that same military style jacket he’d been wearing a few days before at the turkey run. “Because if I allowed every meeting to be a launching pad for suggestions, we’d be there all night. Making people submit them ahead of time keeps things moving along.”

I wished I didn’t appreciate him having a logical explanation. Logic was my favorite thing.

“You don’t live this direction,” I stated, instead.

“I’m walking your way to make sure that the snow removal guys got your driveway done this time.”

“Sure.” I pulled my hands out of my pockets to rub them together briskly. “Because it was such an honest mistake last time.”

“It was.”

“The truth is probably that Hazel invited you over to knit tonight. Besties do that.”

He huffed out a breath. “Don’t you think I’d be walking with Hazel right now if that were the case? And I really doubt that best friendship automatically means knitting. I can’t really see you and those two friends of yours knitting anything. It’s too soft. You’d be more into working with iron and steel.” I didn’t bother replying but offered him a sour expression. “Speaking of, I never did catch their names the other day.”

I nearly smiled. “I didn’t tell you their names on purpose. You’re the enemy, and they’re both spoken for.”

This was a slight fib in that Aryn was not spoken for, although I had a feeling that wasn’t going to last long based on the sudden return of a high school friend who gave me serious long-lost crush vibes -- vibes that she was currently denying.

“I’m not looking for a setup,” he stated.

“Of course you’re not. You have Hazel.”

“And how, exactly, am I the enemy when you started this little . . .” His lips pursed as he thought and waved a hand between us “. . . battle?”

We reached my driveway, and I was happy to note that it was clear. A few doors down the crew was working their way along the street. My outdoor lights were on, and the place didn’t look too shabby.

“I don’t start battles, VanOrman, I only win them,” I said. “The driveway is all clear, so you can go home now and sleep well knowing you’ve served your constituents.” When he didn’t reply I looked his way to find he was staring at the living room window of my house. “What is it?” I asked.

“That’s my question. What is that thing in your window?”

Thatthingwas my cat, and I didn’t appreciate his tone. “For your information, that’s my cat, Betty.”

“You named it?” he took a few steps closer, and Betty proceeded to arch her back and press her bum to the window.

“She only shows her backside to her enemies.” I tried to say it with a straight face, but a giggle slipped out and I clamped my mouth shut.

“What . . . breed is she?”

“ I don’t know. Mixed.”

“Between a cat and a mole rat?”

I gasped. “No. And what is a mole rat?”

“Lumpy, tiny eyes, two really large front teeth.” He hooked two fingers in front of his mouth to demonstrate.

“Go home, Brooks. I’m not sure I can keep my attack feline from gnawing off your face with her huge front teeth if you come any closer.” I tugged my key out of my pocket and unlocked the door, but he was still watching Betty walk along the back of my couch. “Holy Paprika, man. It’s a cat. Pull yourself together,” I cried.

I slammed the door behind me and then walked directly to where my fuzzy gray and white cat was lounging. Brooks was still watching through the window, so I picked her up and snuggled her under my chin. She immediately started purring, while Brooks’s eyes grew large, and he pretended to heave like he was going to throw up. I yanked the drapes closed and then moved further into the house, cooing to my beautiful Betty while fighting down a smile over his antics.

“You’re such a good girl,” I said to her as I sat her on my bed. “Giving that mean man a direct cut that way.”

I continued telling Betty about my day while I changed into a thick flannel pajama set and washed my face. She was always a good listening ear, and she never took the other side regardless of what it was. I’d found Betty three years ago in a box behind the elementary school where I worked. I’d asked a lot of questions, and when no one had answers, I’d claimed her for myself. Betty was definitely not a suave and sophisticated looking cat, but she had pride and honor. She had grit and strength. Which is exactly why I’d chosen the name Betty, in honor of women’s rights activist Betty Friedan. As far as I was concerned, both my cat and the real Betty were tough cookies who inspired me to keep going strong.

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