Page 7 of Catastrophically Yours
"Elena was your grandmother?" Piper asked as she tied a strip of corn husk around a completed tamale.
"My dad's mom. She raised me from age twelve when my parents decided they were too busy with their own drama to deal with a kid." Drew kept her voice matter-of-fact, but Piper's stillness suggested she heard the hurt underneath. "She died when I was nineteen. Left me her recipe box and about a thousand dollars that got me through my first year of community college."
"I'm sorry."
The simple words carried more weight than elaborate sympathy. Drew glanced up to find Piper watching her with those silver-green eyes, and something passed between them—recognition, maybe, of the ways life could reshape you when you weren't looking.
"She would have liked you," Drew said without thinking. "Elena always appreciated people who knew how to take care of things."
Piper's hands stilled on the tamale she was folding. "You don't know that."
"She had this theory that you could tell everything about a person by watching them work with their hands. Patient, careful, making sure each one is perfect." Drew nodded toward Piper's growing stack of expertly folded tamales. "That was Elena's style too."
A flush of color crept up Piper's neck, but she didn't deny the assessment.
An hour later, they sat at Piper's small dining table sharing the fruits of their labor. The tamales had steamed to tender perfection, the masa light and flavorful around the rich, chile-scented pork. Drew watched Piper take her first bite, saw hereyes widen slightly before she reached for a second without being offered.
"This is..." Piper paused, searching for words. "I haven't had a home-cooked meal in months. Maybe longer."
"Really?" Drew couldn't hide her surprise. "What about family dinners? Friends?"
"My family doesn't really do elaborate meals. My mom's been working double shifts since..." Piper caught herself, took a sip of water. "And I don't entertain often. It seems easier to just order what I need when I need it."
The careful phrasing couldn't quite disguise the loneliness underneath. Drew found herself leaning forward slightly, drawn by the glimpse of vulnerability in Piper's precise composure.
"Food is meant to be shared," she said gently. "Elena used to say that eating alone was acceptable, but eating alone by choice was tragic."
Piper's laugh held more sadness than humor. "Your grandmother sounds like she had strong opinions."
"The strongest. She also said that anyone who could fold tamales like that on their first try had natural kitchen instincts and shouldn't waste them on takeout."
"She said that, did she?"
"Well, she would have." Drew grinned, pleased to see Piper's mouth curve into something approaching a real smile. "Elena was very forward-thinking about hypothetical kitchen instruction."
This time Piper's laugh was genuine, bright and surprised in a way that made Drew's chest feel warm.
They migrated to the living room afterward, the evening settling around them like a comfortable blanket. Drew had expected awkward politeness, the careful navigation of temporary roommates remembering their boundaries. Instead, she found herself curled into one corner of Piper's pristinecouch while Piper channel-surfed with the kind of indecision that suggested she rarely used the television for actual entertainment.
Pickle, as if summoned by their settled contentment, appeared from wherever he'd been napping and leaped onto the couch between them. He sprawled across the middle cushions with shameless territorialism, his purr motor immediately kicking into high gear.
"Subtle," Drew muttered, but she was secretly pleased when Pickle's warm bulk pressed against her thigh. He hadn't abandoned her after all—he was just doing what cats do, claiming the most comfortable spot available while staying close to both his humans.
Piper reached over to scratch behind his ears, and Pickle's eyes slitted with pleasure. The simple gesture brought her hand close to Drew's leg, close enough that Drew could smell her shampoo—something clean and herbal that seemed to suit her personality.
"He's very..." Piper paused, searching for the right word while Pickle began kneading against her hip. "Affectionate."
"He's a shameless attention seeker," Drew corrected, though her voice held only fondness. "Emotional support cats are basically professional cuddlers with attitude problems."
"The emotional support is for anxiety?"
The question was asked carefully, without judgment, but Drew still felt the familiar tightness in her chest that came with having to explain her mental health needs to someone new. Most people either treated her like she was fragile or dismissed the whole concept as millennial nonsense.
"Panic attacks, mostly. They started in college and got worse after Elena died. Pickle..." She scratched under his chin, earning an even louder purr. "He can sense when I'm spiraling before I realize it myself. Grounds me."
Piper nodded slowly, thoughtful rather than pitying. "That's why losing housing is so complicated for you. It's not just about finding a place that allows pets."
"Exactly." Relief flooded Drew's voice at being understood so quickly. "Most landlords see 'emotional support animal' and assume it's a scam to get around pet deposits. They don't understand that he's not just a pet—he's medical equipment that happens to purr."
