Page 86 of Catnip, Claws, and Chaos

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Emily

When I was eighteen, I packed my bags and left for college, swearing never to return. I declared myself a city girl. I craved skyscrapers instead of suburban houses, subway rumbles instead of cricket symphonies, and the blessed anonymity of crowds rather than the suffocating intimacy of a town where grocery trips became social events.

Yet here I am, back in my childhood bedroom, surrounded by faded rock posters. Bon Jovi grins down with his perfect eighties hair while my snow globe collection gathers dust on the shelf. They're little worlds trapped in glass, much like me now, suspended between a past I tried to escape and a future I can't quite grasp.

My grand plan collapsed. Truth is, it barely qualified as a plan. I knew where I wanted to be, not who I wanted to become. I arrived in New York drunk on dreams but without a roadmap. The city's appetite devoured my savings. Minimum-wage jobs left me hollow, staggering into bed only to wake up and repeat the cycle. My studies withered. My GPA plummeted. Myscholarship evaporated. The university's rejection letter reduced my ambitions to cold academic jargon.

Each new job becamean adventure, my desperate attempt at silver linings. I reinvented myself with each uniform change, whether balancing on skates or sweating inside a chicken costume. Those disguises armored me against rejection, against plans dissolving, against doors slamming in my face. I never knew what I wanted to become. I convinced myself it didn't matter.

Until now.

I study my silhouette in the mirror, turning sideways. The same soft curve remains, with no visible change yet. But knowing something grows inside me, that there's a heartbeat beneath my heartbeat, leaves me breathless. Terrified. This isn't a job I can quit or a costume I can shed.

I rest my palm against my abdomen, seeking connection with this tiny stranger. Do they sense my fear?

I told my parents immediately. The words spilled out between sobs at the kitchen table that first night home. Dad's face drained of color before flushing crimson, his mouth working silently like one of Ben's fish gasping at the surface. Mom went statue-still, knuckles bleached white where her hands clasped. After the initial shock, after I deflected questions about Logan I couldn't bear to answer, their expressions softened. Excitement about grandparenthood penetrated their disappointment.

“We'll figure this out together,” Mom said, reaching across the table for my hand. And I believed her.

Since then, she's bombarded me with advice. Pamphlets appear on my pillow every morning, and she keeps highlighting passages in pregnancy books I never knew she even owned. I've learned that pregnancy essentially grants a free pass. Normal rules bend around a growing belly. Snap at someone?Hormones. Craving pickles dipped in chocolate at midnight? Biology. Too exhausted to reach the remote? Growing a human is hard work.

For eight months, I can get away with almost anything. A cosmicGet Out of Jail Freecard for life's minor annoyances.

If only I could stop thinking about the inevitable conclusion: childbirth. My stomach knots when I imagine going into labor at the supermarket.The baby drops out of my vagina onto the linoleum between cereal and canned goods, shocked shoppers staring, my child's first moments witnessed by strangers under fluorescent lights. My first act as a mother: public catastrophe.

“Emily, dinner's ready!” Mom's voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts.

I tug my shirt down and descend the stairs, trailing my fingers along the banister. The rich aroma of her lasagna fills the house with comforting normalcy. I take the steps two at a time, surprised by how good it feels to be home.

“Emily!” A shrill voice shatters my nostalgic moment. Perhaps I didn't miss my brother quite as much. “Emily, come get this monster!” Ben shouts from the living room.

I find him standing guard before his aquarium, arms splayed like a goalkeeper protecting the net. His face contorts in a theatrical mask of horror. He's grown since I left.

“She's not a monster,” I say, scooping up Satan's Little Helper from where she crouches on the floor. Her tail twitches with predatory anticipation. No need to tell Ben her real name. The irony would sail past him. “She's just a defenseless kitty. Stop treating her like some demon spawned from hell.” I stroke Demon's head, careful to keep my expression neutral. “She won't hurt your precious fish. She can't even open the aquarium top.” Though honestly, I wouldn't put it past her. Demon's mischief borders on supernatural.

“Get that thing out of here,” Ben demands, dropping his voice an octave in a pathetic attempt at authority. For all his posturing, I see only the little boy who begged me to check under his bed for monsters. “I swear, if anything happens to my fish, I'll tell Mom and Dad about you and your friends smoking in your room.”

“You wouldn't dare.”

“Try me.” His eyes narrow to slits.

Our standoff intensifies, neither blinking. The theme fromThe Good, the Bad, and the Uglyplays in my head as we square off amid suburban furniture, invisible tumbleweeds of cat hair rolling between us. Where did I see this scene before? Oh, right, that was the night my Superman came to save me. It didn't go like that, but it's my memory, and I can remember it whatever the hell I want.

And that's when my vision starts blurring, and tears form in my eyes. Stupid hormones. Fuck, I don't want to blink them away and lose the battle against Ben.

“Kids! Dinner! Now!” Mom's voice cuts through the tension.

“Coming!” I call, maintaining eye contact with Ben.

He finally abandons his post but pauses when he reaches me. “Keep. That. Thing. Away. From. My. Fish.” Each word emerges with deliberate menace, though the effect crumbles when his voice cracks onfish. Despite his attempts at intimidation, he's just a pimply sixteen-year-old with baby fat still rounding his cheeks.

I bite back a laugh. The kid knows too much about my teenage indiscretions, and I don't need another parental lecture on responsibility. Not now.

When he disappears toward the kitchen, I glare at the bundle of black fur in my arms. “You need to stop provoking him.”

Demon responds with a long, indignant meow before stretching up to bump her head against my chin. When did Istart having full conversations with this cat? Maybe it's the baby. They have inherited strange abilities from their father. Yeah, it must be it.

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