Page 93 of Catnip, Claws, and Chaos

“I know what you'd say.” I sniff, getting myself under control. “You'd tell me to stop being a chickenshit. That I can't hide forever.”

I pull out my wallet and take out the photo I've carried for five years. It's worn at the edges, creased from being folded and unfolded. Valerie smiling, hand on her barely there bump. Our future that never happened.

“I think I love her, Val.” My voice is barely a whisper. “Emily. I love how she crashes through life like a hurricane but somehow leaves everything better. I love how she talks to that evil cat of hers like they're having actual conversations.”

My thumb brushes over the photo one last time.

“I love how she makes me feel alive again.”

I carefully tuck the photo under one of the lily stems. “I'll always love you. But I can't keep using you as an excuse anymore.” I stand up, my knees protesting after sitting so long on the hard ground. “I'm gonna find her. Tell her I want to be there for her and the baby.” I take a deep breath that feels different somehow. Lighter. “I'll probably fuck it up. God knows I didn't have the best example growing up. But I want to try.”

I press my hand against the cold marble one more time. “I think it's time I start living again.” My voice breaks. “That's what you'd want, right? For me to be happy?”

Only the wind answers, but for once, the silence doesn't feel empty.

As I walk away, I don't look back. Tomorrow, I'll drive to Emily's parents' place. Tomorrow, I'll see if I can fix what I broke.

But today, I say goodbye to my ghosts to make room for something new.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Emily

“Emily?” Someone gently shakes me, the mattress dipping under their weight. My mother's voice is soft. “Emily, we need to go, or we'll be late for the game.”

I whine, pulling the covers over my head like I used to as a teenager. “Oh, Mom, I don't feel like watching a soccer game all morning. I'm too tired.”

“If you don't want to go, it's fine,” my mother says, patting what she probably meant to be my shoulder but is actually my hip. “Benjamin will understand.”

I peek out from under the covers, squinting against the morning light streaming through the window. My mother's face is lined with more wrinkles than I remember. Her hair is grayer than brown now, but her eyes are the same: kind, patient, and filled with a love that has never wavered.

“I know, darling.” She kisses my forehead, her lips cool against my skin, a familiar gesture that makes my throat tighten with unexpected emotion. “It's the pregnancy,” she says, smoothing my hair from my face. “You'll see, you'll feel better later.”

“I really hope so,” I murmur, wrestling with a sudden wave of nausea. The morning sickness has been relentless, and my body no longer feels entirely my own.

“Would you mind feeding Ben's fish when you get up? We're running late, and there's no time to do it now.” She stands, smoothing her slacks, her wedding ring catching the light as she moves.

“Sure, Mom, no problem.”

She gives me one of those sweet smiles only mothers know how to give, a smile that says,I love you, and I'm proud of you, and everything will be okayall at once and leaves the room.

If it weren't for my sudden queasiness, I would leap out of bed and do a victory dance. I hate soccer. The endless running back and forth, the incomprehensible rules, the fake injuries, and the dramatic falls. I don't understand the rules, and I always fall asleep during the games, my head lolling onto my dad's shoulder until he gently nudges me awake.

“But now that you're here,” I say, giving my belly a couple of little pats, the skin still soft, not yet stretched taut, “I don't have to go to the stupid games anymore!”

I grin, a small victory in a series of losses. Then, just as quickly, guilt washes over me. I don't know why, but taking advantage of my unborn child this way makes me feel like a bad mother, using them as an excuse before they're even born. Oh well, an entire ice cream carton will help me forgive myself. Just thinking about that makes my stomach growl loudly.

Throwing the covers off, I put on my slippers and climb out of bed. The nausea has passed, replaced by a hunger so intense it's almost painful. Demon meows annoyingly and rubs against my calves.

“Okay, okay, I'll feed you, little monster,” I tell her, my voice rough with sleep. “Just give me a few minutes to wake up.”I stretch, my back cracking satisfyingly, my muscles protesting the long night in one position.

Obviously, the selfish furball doesn't care that I'm still half asleep. Her needs are more pressing than my comfort. She keeps weaving in and out of my legs as if trying to push me faster toward the kitchen, or else her plan is to make me fall down the stairs and kill myself, a plot that doesn't seem entirely implausible given her history. Her tail flicks impatiently, her yellow eyes following my every move with predatory focus.

When I finally get downstairs, still in one piece despite Demon's best efforts, I make myself a cup of tea. And I hate it. It's dirt water with sugar, and I can't even start to understand why people drink it. It's tea, not coffee. Shit. Now I crave coffee. Dammit, I want my coffee back! The rich, bitter aroma that used to be the highlight of my mornings now turns my stomach, another small loss in a growing list.

I sigh, close my eyes, and drink mytea.Yuck.

After feeding the cat, I go into the living room and take the top off the aquarium. The stupid fish all swim up to the surface, opening and closing their little mouths like synchronized swimmers, their eyes bulging, their scales flashing in the sunlight. I'm not falling for it this time, though, their silent pleas for more food. Ben only gives them a handful of food, a pinch between his fingers that seems inadequate to my untrained eye. Though they seem ravenous, I do the same thing, resisting the urge to shower them with flakes.

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