Page 6 of Catastrophically Yours
This time he padded over to investigate, bumping his head against Drew's hand in greeting before returning to his study of Piper's ankles. Not rejection—just a cat being a cat, exploring his new territory and the interesting humans who inhabited it.
"He's just curious about the new environment," Piper said quietly, though whether she was trying to convince Drew or herself wasn't clear. She held a piece of whole grain toast in one hand and a perfectly portioned cup of coffee in the other, her breakfast as controlled as everything else in her life. "Cats like to understand their territory before they settle in."
"Right." Drew forced brightness into her voice. "Everything's new for him. New smells, new routines to figure out."
But as she watched Pickle gaze up at Piper with obvious fascination for her organized movements, Drew realized this wasn't about choosing sides or emotional manipulation. This was simply what cats did when they encountered something intriguing—they investigated thoroughly.
The thought of contributing something besides chaos and cat hair struck her suddenly. Piper's refrigerator held single-serving containers of what looked like expensive prepared meals and a few basic staples arranged with geometric precision. The freezer probably contained similar lonely portions, the kind of convenient food that spoke to someone who viewed cooking as an inefficiency rather than a pleasure.
"I could make dinner tonight," Drew offered, the words tumbling out before she could second-guess them. "I know some family recipes that might be nice for a change. If you don't mind me using your kitchen."
Piper paused with her coffee cup halfway to her lips, considering. "You don't have to?—"
"I want to." The earnestness in her own voice surprised Drew. "You're helping me out of a really bad situation. It's the least I can do. Plus, I actually love cooking when I have access to a real kitchen instead of a hot plate."
Her expression shifted, too quick to interpret. "What kind of recipes?"
"My grandmother Elena's tamales." Drew felt herself smile at the memory. "She taught me when I was going through a rough patch in high school. Said food was one of the ways we take care of people we love."
The word hung between them—love—too intimate for their strange situation but impossible to take back. Drew felt heat creep up her neck.
"I mean, people we care about. In general." The clarification only made it worse.
Piper's gaze flicked to Pickle, still purring against her ankles, then back to Drew. "I haven't had homemade tamales since..." She trailed off, shook her head. "That sounds nice. Thank you."
The afternoon found Drew at the small grocery store six blocks from Piper's apartment, Elena's handwritten tamale recipe displayed on her cracked phone screen. She'd photographed all of her grandmother's recipe cards years ago, digital insurance against loss or damage, and scrolled through them now like a deck of precious memories.
The ingredients list required careful budgeting. Dried chiles, masa harina, lard, pork shoulder for the filling. She'd have to skip her morning coffee runs for the rest of the week to affordeverything, but the prospect of creating something meaningful in Piper's sterile kitchen made the sacrifice worthwhile.
She selected each item with the kind of attention Elena had taught her—pressing the chiles to check for flexibility, choosing pork with the right ratio of fat to lean meat, testing the masa harina's texture between her fingers. The elderly woman at checkout smiled knowingly at Drew's careful selections—one cook recognizing another.
By four o'clock, Piper's kitchen had been transformed into something Elena would have recognized. Drew had covered every available surface with prep bowls, cutting boards, and ingredients in various stages of preparation. The dried chiles simmered on the stove, filling the apartment with earthy heat and the deep, complex aroma of toasted spice.
She'd found Piper's bluetooth speaker hidden in a cabinet and paired her phone to it, letting Esperanza Spalding's voice fill the space while she worked. The music loosened something in her shoulders that had been tight since yesterday's eviction notice, muscle memory responding to rhythm the way it always did.
Drew was crushing garlic with the flat side of a knife when she heard Piper's key in the front door. The sound sent an unexpected flutter through her chest—part anxiety about the mess she'd created, part anticipation for Piper's reaction to the transformation.
Footsteps approached the kitchen and stopped. Drew looked up from her cutting board to find Piper frozen in the doorway, wide eyes behind her glasses taking in the controlled chaos of cooking spread across her normally pristine counters.
"I know it's a mess," Drew started quickly, wiping her hands on a dish towel. "But I'll clean everything up, I promise. I just needed space to work and?—"
"It smells incredible." Piper's voice held a note of wonder that made Drew's breath catch. She stepped further into the kitchen, setting down her leather work bag and breathing deeply. "What is that?"
"Chile colorado for the pork. Elena always said the secret was toasting the chiles until they were just about to burn, then pulling them back from the edge." Drew stirred the simmering pot, releasing another wave of fragrance. "The masa's ready if you want to help with assembly. Fair warning though—it's kind of messy work."
Piper looked down at her tailored blazer and crisp shirt, then back at Drew's flour-dusted hands. "Let me change."
She returned five minutes later in jeans and a soft gray sweater that made her eyes look more silver than green. Without the armor of her work clothes, she seemed younger, more approachable. The wire-rimmed glasses had been traded for contacts, and Drew realized with a start that she'd never seen Piper's whole face unobstructed before.
"Show me," Piper said simply.
Drew guided Piper through spreading masa on corn husks, her hands covering Piper's fingers to demonstrate the right pressure and thickness. Piper's skin was warm and slightly calloused on the fingertips—surprising texture that spoke to hidden practicality beneath the polished surface.
"Like this?" Her voice was softer than usual, concentrated.
"Perfect." Drew's thumb brushed across Piper's knuckles as she adjusted the angle. "Elena used to say the masa should be thin enough to see through but thick enough to hold the filling. It's all about balance."
They worked in companionable rhythm, Drew filling each prepared husk with spiced pork while Piper mastered the folding technique with the same precision she brought to everything else. The domesticity of it—two people creating somethingtogether in the golden light of early evening—felt dangerously natural.
