Page 12 of Pickled
At school, we had been teased for our homemade fruit roll-ups and sandwiches on thick bread, while all of our friends had the store-bought kind and Lunchables. At six foot seven, three inches taller than Ace, I attributed my size to her simple ingredient cooking.
I still cook that way for myself, but Ace prefers takeout. I swear the guy lives on pizza and beer. I stepped onto the back deck, closely followed by my temporary roommate, put the steaks on the grill, and sat on a lounger next to my pool.
Just as I started to relax, my phone buzzed with a text message. I picked it up and shielded my eyes from the glare of the setting sun.
Ace: Did you find the cat? (cat emoji, smile emoji, peach emoji)
I had been so preoccupied with Piper and the cat drama I’d forgotten to check in with my brother. The last he heard, I’d been out looking for a cat.
Me: It’s complicated.
Ace: I knew it. What’s her name?
The cat scampered across the patio, chasing a fly. “Get it, little dude,” I whispered.
Shit. I had to make a decision: take him to the animal shelter or keep him. The cat looked at me, then crouched into stalker mode, wiggling his butt before launching at the bug. He missed.
Catching myself laughing, I took a photo of him and sent it to Ace.
Ace: That’s a kitten
Me: No shit Sherlock
Ace: Why do you have your neighbor’s cat?
Smoke billowed out of the barbecue as I lifted the lid to flip the steak and roll the potatoes.
Me: It looks like I have a cat now
Ace: WTF. You hate cats.
The three text dots came and went a couple of times, but instead of a goofy message, my phone lit up with a call.
I answered the phone. “I told you, it’s complicated.”
“I’m so confused,” Ace replied. “The other night, you were out with your neighbor, looking for her cat. I could tell by the tone of your voice that she was hot. I thought that ‘looking for a cat’ was code forI’m getting laid. Now, you have an actual cat, and let me guess, didn’t end up in bed with your hot soccer mom neighbor.”
“That pretty much sums it up.” I could hear Goldie in the background asking a bunch of questions. “She’s not a soccer mom though.”
“I guess Goldie was wrong. Hold on, she wants to talk to you.” There was some shuffling, and then Goldie’s voice came through the speaker.
“Hi, Gideon.”
“Hi, Goldie-Girl.” Ace’s nickname for Goldie had spread amongst the family. I held my breath and wondered if she could tell I had a mega crush on my neighbor. My brother’s wife had the craziest intuition and knew things she couldn’t possibly know.
“Why do you have your neighbor’s cat?”
I took a deep breath. “It’s a crazy story. The cat’s, not hers. She found hers that night, but I didn’t know. In the morning, this little guy was in the bush on the side of the road. I thought it was her cat, so I stopped and picked him up.”
“You picked up the wrong cat? That is wild, Gideon. Are you going to keep him?” I could practically hear her smiling through the phone. Both she and Ace were animal lovers and doted on their dog, Morton. They were the annoying couple who made up voices and spoke as if they were the damn dog themselves. Their version of the malamute’s voice sounded like a cross between Scooby-Doo and Austin Powers. It was so sickeninglycute I couldn’t bring myself to point out the obvious flaw—that a malamute wouldn’t have a British accent.
The cat wound around my feet as I prodded the steak with my finger, then let out one of his signature yowls. “Ohhhh.” Goldie gushed through the phone. “I can hear him. Please tell me that you’re keeping him.”
Ace shouted in the background. “Gideon hates cats.”
Satisfied that the steaks were medium rare, I transferred them and the potatoes to a platter. “I’m still hoping that he belongs to someone and is just lost. I can’t have a cat.”
“Why not?” Goldie asked.
