Page 42 of Every Chance After

“I’m always down for music.” She smiles at me from the couch, still petting the cats, snuggling at her sides.

“Nice CD collection. I thought I was the old one here. Ever heard of streaming?”

She gapes over my joke. “Yes! But I get ten CDs for a dollar at any thrift store! That’s way better than paying monthly for a service. Plus, it’s nice, rescuing things.”

I nod, looking around at her rehomed cats and thrifted furniture. That’s what she does. She rescues things.

Her place is tidy and interestingly put together. It’s all warm beiges, pops of red, and earthy greens, but not like Christmas. The red couch matches her red hair and the red tulips on the curtains. The greens in her lampshades and knick-knacks match her enormous plant collection—they’re everywhere, somehow livening the place up without looking cluttered. The beige carpet, throw pillows, and blankets match her mismatched wood furniture, adding warmth and golden hues. It’s a home constructed via yard sales that somehow works.

But for what it has in oddities, it lacks in personable items. Nearly every blank wall space is filled with shelves and frames, but only one picture—a framed selfie of her and Ashe at the beach—sits on the table beside her.

The best feature of her living room and kitchenette is the natural light from the oversized window in the front and a smaller version in the back. Cat towers take up most of the real estate there, what space isn’t monopolized by plants hanging from the ceiling or shelved against the walls. There’s a small TV and console opposite the couch, a two-seater dining area shoved against the back window, and a kitchen so small it’s a wonder there’s room for an oven.

Between jazzy Norah Jones ballads, I bring in a tote of magazines and snacks and Frilly Willie. She instructs me to put him on the dining table. I set the magazines on her coffee table—she doesn’t seem the type to readVogue.

In the kitchen, I put the muffins and Reese’s cups on the counter near the coffee maker. While there, I check her nearly empty fridge and cabinets.

Watching my every move, she says, “I’ll have someone bring me supplies from Sunny’s. No biggie.”

“Who’d you have watching the cats?”

“Oh, my landlord and neighbor, Peter Pike. And Wren Christie from work.”

“Ed Christie’s kid?”

Marina grins. “Gosh, was that her father? I didn’t make the connection. I’ve already told them I’m home, but they’ll still check in. They won’t mind picking up some groceries for me. I’ve got it covered, Grady.”

I prop her cane beside her. “Need help to the bathroom or anything?”

“No, thanks. I can do that.”

“More music or TV?”

“Um, TV,” she says.

In her bedroom, I turn off the CD player. Then, I hand her the remote control from the table and kneel before her since the small couch is overrun with cats. The orange tabby, presumably Sunkist, stands and arches next to me, flicking her tail along my cheek.

A laugh rumbles out of me as I pet her velvety fur, and she meows her approval.

“She likes you,” Marina whispers, like this is a secret. “Hershey’s unsure yet. He’s not used to another guy around.”

A glance at the narrow-eyed cat at her feet confirms his suspicious glare. “Not even Ashe?”

“He doesn’t like my place. Triscuit scratched at him once,” she shrugs, and then winces. “Um, thanks for all you’ve done.”

“I’m not done yet. Here’s what’s going to happen, and it’ll be quicker if you don’t argue. I’ll get your prescriptions so you can have them before you start hurting. When I come back, I’ll take care of Triscuit’s ears.”

“Ah, you remembered!”

“Course. Anything else you need?”

She shakes her head, making her long, copper locks dance on her shoulders.

“I’m taking your keys to lock the door, so you won’t have to get up when I get back.” I tug the crocheted blanket on the back of the couch over her and around the cats.

“There’s cash in my purse,” she says, “for the prescriptions.”

I stand, ignoring her money offer, and grab the keys on the coffee table. “Get some rest.”

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