Page 38 of Faking All the Way
From his chair, Edward lets out a laugh. It’s rusty-sounding, like he doesn’t do it often. “He really wants to help.”
“Not now, Murphy.” I click my tongue against my teeth, trying to gently push the cat aside. “Come on, big guy. I need to actually be able to reach this.”
The cat meows indignantly, tilting his head to one side. He moves about six inches away before immediately trying to climb back into my space, as if determined to be as close to me as physically possible.
Even I have to chuckle at his persistence. “Okay, fine. You can supervise. Just stop trying to getrightin front of me.”
After about half an hour of fiddling, I manage to get the valve adjusted properly and test it, satisfied when I hear the radiator let out a low, steady hiss. Murphy watches the whole process with intent focus, as if he’s going to be the one who has to fix it next time.
“He really likes you,” Edward comments from his chair. “I’ve never seen him act this way with anyone else. Usually, he tolerates my presence and ignores everyone else.”
“Yeah, I noticed.” I reach over to give Murphy another scratch, and the cat practically melts under my hand. “How’d you end up with him, anyway? You never struck me as a cat person growing up. You always said they were too independent.”
“I didn’t exactly ‘get’ him.” Edward taps his fingers against his chin. “He just showed up one day about three years ago, maybe a little longer. Middle of winter, fur all thick, mean as anything. Feral, clearly. He’d hiss if I got within ten feet of him.”
“So what changed?”
“I started leaving food out. Not because I wanted a cat, but because I figured if he was going to hang around my property, I might as well make sure he didn’t starve.” Edward shifts in his chair, seeming to get a bit more comfortable as the pain medication starts to work. “Took months before he’d let me get close. Even longer before he’d come inside. Eventually, he just decided to stay.”
“Soheadoptedyou,” I observe, moving on to check another part of the radiator.
“Pretty much.” There’s a pause, and then my father adds, “I let him stick around because I needed the company, if I’m being honest. Gets quiet out here by myself. Too quiet, sometimes.”
Something twists hard in my chest at that admission. I don’t want to think about Edward being all alone out here, no one to talk to beyond a feral cat he managed to befriend. No onechecking on him, no one calling to see how he’s doing. Just him and Murphy in this house, day after day.
“Don’t you have friends in Maplewood? People you see regularly? Hang out with?”
“I’m friendly with my neighbors,” he says after a moment. “The Burtons next door, we wave when we see each other. Chat about the weather. And I know people in town from running errands and that kind of thing.”
“But no one you’re actually close to.”
“No.” His answer is simple, straightforward. “I never got too close to anyone after I moved here. Got out of the habit of developing relationships, I guess, and never really got it back.”
I swallow hard, looking back at the radiator. Everything he just said hits too close to home, making me think about my own life over the past year. How I’ve retreated into myself after all the career uncertainty, the injury that changed everything, the constant anxiety about whether I’ll ever get back to where I was. Not letting people in, keeping everyone at arm’s length except for maybe one or two of my ex-teammates who refused to be shut out.
I don’t want to end up like him. Alone in a house with only a cat for company and no one to call when things go wrong.
“I’m glad you have Murphy, at least,” I say, my voice a bit thick.
“Me too.” Edward hums quietly under his breath. “He’s better company than most people anyway. Doesn’t judge, doesn’t ask questions I can’t answer.”
After that, we lapse into silence. Not comfortable exactly, but not as tense as it could be. I finish adjusting the radiator and move on to the kitchen, where I tighten the loose cabinet hinge and check a few others while I’m at it. Then I tackle the light bulbs in the hallway, standing on a chair to reach the fixtures.
Murphy follows me from room to room, his presence a constant shadow. Every time I stop moving, he’s there, rubbing against my legs or trying to climb onto whatever surface I’m working on. It’s endearing, in a way, even if it’s definitely not as helpful as he seems to think it is.
By the time I’m done with everything that was on the list for today, it’s a little before two. When I come back into the living room, Edward has dozed off in his chair, his head tipped back and his mouth slightly open. Murphy—who finally got bored and wandered off a few minutes ago—is curled up on his lap in an orange circle, sleeping too.
I stand there for a moment, gazing at them in silence. My father looks older when he’s sleeping, more vulnerable. The lines on his face seem deeper, more pronounced, and the gray in his hair stands out against the other strands that are still as dark as mine.
“I’m heading out,” I say quietly.
His eyes open slowly, and for a second, he looks disoriented. Then he focuses on me, blinking a few times. There’s something vulnerable in his expression, as if he’s let his guard down in his half-awake state.
“Already?” he asks, his voice rough from sleep.
“Yeah. I’ve got plans at two.”
“Right. Of course.” He straightens slightly in the chair, disturbing Murphy, who meows in protest but doesn’t actually move. “Thank you for coming. For all the work. I appreciate the help more than I can say.”
