Page 32 of Forget Me Knot

“Owen. He came by the shop when you—or Jack—had an episode.”

“Yeah. So that’s one of the stranger pieces of the whole thing,” Jackson says with a nonchalance that feels almost forced. “Jack is the only one of us with the migraines.”

“Really? You never… ?”

“Nope.” He shakes his head. “Aside from the blip in memory, when I’m me, I feel normal. Just like I did before the accident. But Jack… He wasn’t me, ya know? He’s… It’s almost like he’s an entirely new person. And a person with debilitating migraines. He can’t really function when they get bad, so my siblings have really stepped up to help out on those days.”

“I actually saw him… last week. I brought you—or Jack—pretzels when he was sick.”

“Oh. That’s really nice, Dinah.” Jackson nods his head and grows quiet.

I’m not sure what to do with the change in conversation or whether speaking about Jack makes him uncomfortable, so I steer us to safer areas. Like the furballs somersaulting over our legs and hands. “So, which one of these babies are you taking home, and what will you name her?”

“Who says I’m taking one of the girls?” He arches an eyebrow and scoops up the wild, gray Maine Coon, who looks as if his collar of fluff could be a lion’s mane. “I think this guy belongs with me.”

“Him? You really think you don’t wanna ease Jack into the idea with a more docile option? Like this girl,” I scratch behind the ears of the little lady still in my hands. “She’s so sweet and quiet and snuggly.”

“Nah,” he holds the male up again and gives his head a playful rub, earning the cat’s excited mewls as he paws at Jackson’s hands and shirt like a little kitty boxer. His clawscatch on the sleeve of Jackson’s henley, but he only smiles and disentangles the mischief maker. “I say, go big or go home. Jack’ll be annoyed either way. But this guy is the one.”

“He is awfully cute.”

The cat’s pointed ears, puff-ball gray hairs, and mossy green eyes definitely make him stand out from the rest. He’s adorable and… he’s clawing Jackson’s arms into shreds.

“Thanks, Dinah Belle. I’ve wanted to do this for a while, but I don’t think I would have gone through with it if not for you.”

I smile nervously but nod all the same, and send up a prayer that I didn’t make a huge mistake by encouraging Jackson to go against Jack’s wishes.

11

BEAUTIFUL CRAZY

LUKE COMBS

JACK

Wet sandpaper rubs against my cheek. And neck. And chest.

“What the—” My eyes burst open, and I jump out of the sheets. A small, gray creature scurries beneath the bed, and when my brain registers that it wasn’t a rat giving me a wet wake-up call, I crouch down to investigate further.

A cat.

No. A kitten. A gray furball, pawing its claws into the area rug and pulling threads up with every movement, pauses its destruction only to look at me with haunting green eyes. I don’t even have time to search for the note I know will be waiting for me with a three point explanation, because the little miscreant abandons my rug, scampers over to the clothesheleft in the corner of the room, and circles once before using my favorite jeans and forest green henley as its own personal porta-potty.

“Hey!” I holler, only earning the cat’s unintimidated scowl. Did it just roll its eyes at me? “Where do you think you’re going?”

I scoop up the little—guy—I discover after a quick check, wincing as he claws my hands like the little demon he is, andsearch the room frantically for Jackson's sticky note. I find it quickly, stuck to the cat castle he’s installed in the corner of the living room right next to a basket overflowing with toys that was certainly not there before.

Meet Chipper Jones.

Food in pantry.

Dinah helped. 2nd date.

I can’t believe he did it. After I repeatedly said no… And Dinah helped.

I put the tiny infiltrator in the bathtub, because clearly I’m out of my element here, and I quickly throw on a shirt and shoes as he howls like he’s dying. After I take my daily meds and sneeze about a hundred times, I convince myself that I’m angry that somebody else's cat is destroying my bathroom. That, again, I don’t have a voice in the life I’m leading. I’m mad he didn’t respect me enough to listen when I said I didn’t want this.

My anger has absolutely nothing to do with the final line on that pale yellow sticky note. The one running on repeat through my head as I snag the furry interloper, stomp from my apartment down the stairs to the shop, and burst through the door that connects my loft to hers:

---