Page 23 of Before We're More Than Friends
Arielle sat next to me and said grace for all of us before she practically inhaled her first waffle, not even waiting to put butter or syrup on it.
“My goodness,” Mom said, holding back a laugh. “Someone woke up hungry.”
“The audacity to eat your waffles plain,” I said as I poured syrup on my waffles. “This isn’t like you.”
Arielle let out a gasp after she finished swallowing. “I should’ve eaten more at dinner last night.” She gulped down about half of her orange juice before letting out a huge burp. “My gosh.” She put her hand to her mouth. “Excuse me.”
“You sure you weren’t born in a barn and got switched with my twin?” I asked while chewing on my waffles.
Arielle scoffed. “Like you don’t have syrup all over your face from talking with your mouth full.”
I dabbed my face with a napkin as Mom and Dad laughed. Usually, Dad would get annoyed with our playful bickering and the mess we were making—like his cooking process didn’t involve destroying the entire kitchen—but he sat there with a smile, though his face twitched from discomfort. He was trying his best. He used to not try at all.
In the middle of our meal, Dad’s phone rang on the table. He swallowed before picking it up. “I have to take this. Be backin a few minutes.” He picked the phone up before leaving out the back patio door.
We clearly had a different definition of a few minutes because by the time the three of us had finished our second round of waffles—and Penrose had stolen some of Arielle’s bacon—Dad still hadn’t come back inside. I should’ve freaking known. A normal family moment was always too good to be true.
“Sorry,” Dad said as Arielle and I cleaned up the table. “You don’t have to clean everything. I’ll do the rest.”
“Okay,” I said before going back into my room, where I could block out my whirlwind of thoughts with my music.
“You’re on poop duty today.”
“Good afternoon to you, too,” I muttered. There was nothing like entering the animal shelter to have Oliver Landers, the owner’s son, give me the crappiest tasks. Literally.
“Arielle suggested that I should switch your tasks today since she’d been on poop duty at least once a day the past few weeks.”
I went to glare at Arielle, but she was already skipping down the hallway as if she were entering a Disney Park, imaginary birds singing around her. Traitor.
Oliver laughed. “Gosh, your face is priceless. You just have to feed the cats and clean up after them.”
“Yeah, I know how to do that.” I waved a hand.
He rolled his eyes and handed me two bags of food. “The big one is for the cats two years and older, and the small is for the ones under two years. Don’t mix them up. The cat food can make the kittens sick.”
“You really think I’d mix them up?” I frowned. “Ouch.”
He gave me a mock-serious expression. “This shelter’s fate is in your hands, Raina Carly Vermont.”
“It’sChloe.” The bags of food got heavy, so I set them down on the floor and let out a breath. “I’ll do my best.”
He smiled and walked away. Oliver practically lived here, hoping to follow in his mom’s footsteps. His award-winning smile never failed to put me in a better mood. I did have a crush on him when I was fourteen, after all.
My cheeks flushed as I thought about that wild time. We’d gone on a few dates and had a few good kissing sessions, but the spark died after a few things went down with his friends. It didn’t take him long to move on to sophomore Natalie Mao, who he claimed was the best kisser. Probably way better than me.
I doubted he even remembered that he kissed me, which made me glad that we stayed just friends. I didn’t want someone who had a new girlfriend every few weeks, though there was nothing wrong with that—I wanted someone who made me feel special.
Shaking the thoughts out of my head, I went to the cat hallway and brought food to the babies. A tuxedo who was only ten weeks old, Nina, let out a meow when I poured her food.
“I love you,” I whispered to her before closing her cage. She meowed again, nearly turning me into a puddle. I hated seeing everyone locked away on display. It made me want to become a foster mom for cats . . . only I’d keep all of them for life. Even Rocco, who shredded the newspaper in his cage, had me beaming.
When I finished feeding the last cat, Snowball the white Persian cat, I went back into the lobby to place the bags back down on the counters and to wait for my next task.
Mrs. Landers looked up from her desk and faced me, her blonde hair falling into her eyes. “Did you feed all of them?”
“Some of them weren’t hungry, but I gave them a healthyamount anyway.” I smiled. “They need more meat on them, the poor skinny things.”
“I know.” She sighed. “Some of them have been through a lot and are too scared to eat.”
