Page 13 of Spicy or Sweet
I don’t know much about cats, but I have access to Google, the same as everyone else. After a shit ton of research, I came to the conclusion that he’s just a cat. It seems like cats are either ridiculously fancy or just cats. And Cat, as I call him—because I’m so original—falls into the latter category.
He started showing up here a couple of years ago, on Halloween, to be exact. At first, I thought he was a decoration—that seemed more logical than a black cat deciding the potted camellias I keep out front were the perfect bed. I almost shit myself when he started following me up to my apartment.
I asked around to see if anyone was missing him, but no one ever claimed him, and no one recognized him. He doesn’t have a microchip, and he didn’t have a collar. He’s always come and gone as he pleases, but these days, he’s here more than he’s gone. If he has another home, they must not be too worried about him.
It’s been long enough that I should probably name him and commit to the little creature that seems to have claimed me, but I’m terrified that the second I do, his actual owners will pop up out of the woodwork and I’ll be forced to give up the only friend I have in this town.
“How was your day?” I murmur in a baby voice, and Cat meows back as I carry him upstairs to my apartment.
Living above the patisserie is unbelievably convenient, and I love my apartment. It’s not big, but it’s enough for one person—and a cat who unofficially lives here. There’s a cozy bedroom, a big kitchen/living room, and a bathroom with a deep soaking tub, that’s exactly what I need after long days in the kitchen. I’ve been known to spend hours soaking, letting the water skim over my skin long after it’s chilled and the bubbles have all gone.
I fall asleep in the bath more often than I’d like to admit, but Cat is usually pretty good at waking me up when he wants more food, which is often.
The best part of the apartment, by far, is the fenced-in terrace that sits on top of the roof of my café below. French doors lead off my living room onto the terrace, where I have outdoor furniture, tons of plants, and a perfect view of Wintermore. It’s a sun trap, but there’s plenty of shade up against the apartment, and my plants are thriving.
Cat loves to lie on the sun-heated stones, and it’s the perfect spot to enjoy my coffee and breakfast before heading downstairs to start my day.
I feed Cat, giving him a scratch between his ears as he purrs his thanks, and open the terrace doors, letting in the cool mountain air. I love the smell of fall—crisp and earthy.
The privacy on my terrace is a little lacking, but I don’t mind people being able to see up, since it means I can see down. I can also see across the street to other rooftop terraces and balconies.
Noelle doesn’t spend a lot of time in her apartment, let alone on her balcony, but I’ve seen her sitting out there sometimes in the wee hours of the morning when I can’t sleep, pacing back and forth or just staring into space.
She reminds me of me when I was in the last couple of years of my marriage, trying to make sense of my head versus my heart. I don’t know what she’s toiling over, but I can tell there’s something, and I’m guessing she doesn’t get a lot of time to switch off, considering how busy she is with work.
Her apartment is dark tonight, save for the Christmas lights that twinkle on her balcony and in her bedroom window year-round.
I was worried that Main Street would be a nightmare to live on, between the highway that cuts right through the center of town and the bars and restaurants that stay open late. But even in Wintermore’s busiest season, I find I don’t mind the noise, the chaos. The quiet days are harder, and tonight is particularly quiet.
I head back into the apartment to grab my phone, a glass of white wine, and leftover spring rolls from my fridge, before sinking into the Papasan chair on the terrace.
Pulling up my message thread with Nico, I type out a quick text:
Hey. All good with you?
Everything’s fine. You?
Same. Have you called Mom and Dad recently?
Last week. They seem fine.
Great! I’ll call them tomorrow and check in.
Nico doesn’t reply, and I sigh, chewing my lip. Like pulling blood from a stone.
Do you need anything? Food, firewood, etc.?
I work with wood for a living, Shay. If I needed firewood, I think I’d have bigger problems.
But no, thank you. I’m all set.
Business going well?
Nico’s childhood woodworking hobby serves him well working at his cabin up on the mountain. He makes furniture by commission. Everything is arranged online and shipped to his customers. He has a bit of a cult following and makes decent money. Besides, it’s not like he needs much to get by up there.
I trace the curve of the cherrywood elephant he sent me a few months ago. It sits on my terrace table, but I have tons of little trinkets dotted around my apartment. Every couple of months, the courier who collects his furniture pieces to take them to the delivery warehouse up in Jackson stops by and leaves a present from Nico on my doorstep.
We might not talk as often as I’d like, nor are our conversations particularly in-depth, but this is his way of letting me know he’s thinking of me. I treasure each and every one.
