Page 29 of Back to You
Chapter 10
Iwas nervous.
Grandma Gin’s place was cluttered at the best of times, and with eleven cats, sometimes it got pretty hectic. I’d already scooped all six litter boxes and opened up the windows to try and air out the cat-smell that I knew probably clung to these walls. I’d spent all afternoon cleaning and dusting and sweeping while Grandma Gin made her famous fall-apart pot roast and garlic mashed potatoes.
A loud “Reooooowr!” made me nearly jump out of my skin. The lanky Siamese whose tail I’d just stomped on hissed and dove for cover beneath the couch.
“Georgette! Baby, I’m so sorry.” I tossed the broom aside and got down on my hands and knees. I peered beneath the flap of fabric covering the couch feet. Georgette’s tail was puffed up to twice its size. She pinned me with a cold look, hissing once more and then growling for good measure. “I’m sorry, pretty kitty. My bad. Come here.” I felt like a grade-A asshole.
“Hollister, get up off the floor. That darn cat’ll be fine. Luckily for you, Georgie doesn’t hold a grudge.” Grandma Gin waved her cane in my face. “Up, up, up.” When I stood, she handed me a glass of ice water. “Here. Sit down and take a break. You’re practically shaking, child.”
“No I’m not,” I lied.
“Bah.”
“I’m a little nervous,” I told her. “I want Dane to accept my life here. If it wasn’t for you, I’d probably be a hooker or an addict or something.” She’d saved me when I was at the lowest spot in my life, trading sex for a place to sleep and eating out of restaurant dumpsters. Definitely wasn’t my finest moment.
“Child, if that boy truly cares about you, he won’t give two shits what the place looks like. Sure, there’s cat hair in every crack and crevice, not to mention the food, half the time.” She cackled. “But this home is filled with love, and if you’re somehow worried about me not accepting him, don’t be. You’ve been so happy. Only a fool couldn’t tell that it’s because of Dane coming back into your life. You know what I think?”
“Huh,” I mused.
“I think you two were meant to be. Written in the stars, like me and Calvin.” She heaved a wistful sigh. “I miss that crotchety old bastard.” There was a knock on the door. We exchanged a glance, then she shook a finger at me. “Relax, Hollister, it’ll all be fine. You’ll see.”
“Thanks, Gran. I’ll, uh, get the door.” I took a gulp of ice water to wet my dry throat. I set the glass down on the water-ringed end table and made a beeline for the door. My pulse thumped out a drum solo. I flipped the deadbolt and swung the door wide. Dane stood on the stoop with a nervous smile on his face and a bouquet of roses in his hand.
“Hey.” He gave a little laugh, then plucked the lone red rose from the sea of white ones and offered it to me. Warmth tingled in my ears. I wasn’t a flower guy, but as a gift from Dane? It might’ve been the most beautiful rose in the entire world.
“I hope you like cats,” I murmured, welcoming him inside. As if on cue, we were greeted by the reediest and loudest of meows. With big, cross-eyed baby blues and a thick roman nose, Sampson was beautiful in his own derpy way. He arched his back and rubbed up against Dane’s legs, leaving a sea of white hairs in his wake. Dane bent to pet him. “That’s Sampson. His sister Georgette is hiding because I accidentally stepped on her tail, but she’s just as loud and annoying as he is.”
“He’s beautiful.”
I grinned and scooped up the fat tabby that came trotting out from beneath the kitchen table. His big belly swayed as he walked. He had a notched ear and only half a tail, thanks to frostbite, but he wouldn’t have to endure another harsh winter. I held out the pudgy tom. His legs flopped. “This is Alabama. He’s a lazy piece of shit, but he’s a great mouser. Just don’t tell him that mousing is exercise.”
We both glanced down as two more curious felines came poking their heads into the kitchen. “Wow. How many cats does she have?” Dane asked, the flowers still clutched to his chest. The crinkling cellophane was drawing their attention, for sure.
“Would you believe me if I said eleven?” I asked.
“No.”
“Eleven. Eleven cats, all of them rescues. Grandma Gin has a soft spot for strays, apparently.”
“I surely do, child,” she piped up, scuffing her mocassin slippers on the tile. She came up beside me. I held my breath as she looked Dane over from head to toe. Seemingly satisfied with what she saw, she nodded. Her curls bounced. “Virginia Wesley, but you can call me Grandma Gin. Most everyone does.”
“Dane Fisher. These are for you.” He offered her the bouquet. “Thank you for looking out for Hollister. It means a lot to me.”
She tutted, but even she couldn’t hide her smile. “Of course, of course. It’s what I do.” Drawing the roses to her face, she breathed them in. “Lovely,” she said before clattering through the cabinets, mumbling about where she’d stashed her vases. I grabbed Dane’s hand and led him out of the stuffy kitchen.
“She’s nice.”
“She is. Sit with me?” I patted the cushion of Grandma Gin’s unsightly plaid couch with its clawed up arms and stuffing hanging out of the seams. Dane didn’t seem to mind. The minute we sat down, he swept his gaze around the room, taking in all of our clutter—organized chaos, as Gran called it. My stomach clenched, but he was smiling. That was a good sign. “So…”
“It’s not what I expected, but it’s nice. Homey. Look at that one.” He pointed to a small black cat with a pushed-in face, courtesy her Persian heritage. The cat pinned him with a rather dignified look, then sprang up onto the armchair to watch us from her throne.
“That’s Queenie. She’s finicky. Only eats food that comes from a can. I shit you not, she will starve herself until Gran gives her what she wants. She’s got the old lady wrapped around her little claw.”
“Who’s this?” Old Custard himself came slinking out from beneath Queenie’s chair, his tail flicking. He gave me the side-eye, then busied himself with inspecting Dane’s jeans. When Dane offered a hand, Custard sniffed his fingers. He must’ve approved, because he jumped up onto the couch and plopped his tawny-furred butt into Dane’s lap. Dane grinned from ear to ear.
I chuckled. “That’s Custard. He was on the streets for who knows how long. He’s our trouble maker, always getting into shit. He and Gran have a very love-hate relationship, but she knows he wouldn’t accept just anyone if she ever tried to adopt him out, so he’s here for good. She’s always wanted her home to be a refuge for the frightened strays who came into her life. Eleven cats and one homeless guy later, here we are.”
