Tuesday, September 19
(Scout)
It's been a long day. I just got home from work and I'm already looking forward to going to sleep in a few hours. I'm longing for it like the two of us haven't been together in days. Sleep's been messing with me the past few weeks. Anxiety is my nemesis. You name it, I worry about it. Working with Audrey is like a dream, but I still worry about it—my job performance, my ability to learn the business quickly and effectively, my interaction with clients. She always assures me that she's pleased with my work, but I have so much doubt and it's so deeply ingrained that it's hard for me to turn off the worry.
I worry about Audrey. It's not my job as her assistant to worry about her, but I do because I've become so fond of her on a personal level. She's my mentor and someone I aspire to be like. I admire her so much and I just want the best for her and somehow that translates into worry within me.
I worry about Paxton and how he's doing at school. I worry about Jane and her well-being and mental state. I worry about my past with Michael—and even though I've put that behind me, the worry still nags at me. I worry about Gustov, both him and our friendship. Sometimes I feel like I don't know how to do true friendship with anyone other than Paxton, but I know that I want to be his friend.
The hard part is that our friendship is slightly complicated by the attraction I sometimes feel toward him. It comes at the oddest times: when he's done something nice, or when he looks at me with a goofy look on his face, or when he says something unexpected. It just happens, and I don't know how to deal with that yet. It's new and foreign.
So I worry about anything and everything. Sometimes it's warranted. Sometimes it's not. I just worry. It's what I do. And it's exhausting.
It's not until I hear a meow that I open my eyes and navigate the hallway to my bedroom fully alert. It's a small, gray and white kitten. It's circling me, lovingly brushing up against my legs. When I squat down to pet it, it's purring. "Hey, there," I whisper. I can't help smiling until its tiny head tilts up toward me and then I gasp and pick it up. "Oh, you poor thing." The injuries aren't fresh, but they look like they healed with little or no human intervention. Its left eye is absent, the socket misshapen from trauma. Half of its left ear is missing. And its left front leg is grotesquely bowed out as if it was badly broken and never healed correctly.
The purring intensifies.
"You fucking little traitor." It's Gustov.
Startled, I freeze, still holding the kitten. "What?"
He points at the cat in my arms. "Spare Ribs."
Now I'm really confused. "Spare ribs?"
"Yeah, that's her name, Spare Ribs. I found her this morning down the street. She'd climbed into the Cominsky's trash can and was going to town on some—"
I interrupt him, smiling. "Spare ribs. I get it."
He nods.
Sometimes ... most of the time ... his originality entertains me. It's refreshing. Who names their cat Spare Ribs? "That's not very ladylike for a girl kitty," I say.
"Spare Ribs is a righteous name. And she's no lady, Impatient. Don't let her fool you, she's a hardcore hustler." He raises his arms to show me the claw marks up and down each forearm. "She fought valiantly. We're friends now." He looks at her in my arms again. "Sort of. I think she likes you better. Not gonna lie, I'm a little hurt, Spare Ribs. I offer you refuge and you fucking turncoat for the first chick who walks in. Not cool."
I smile when he says Spare Ribs again, because it's just funny. "Have you taken her to the vet? This looks bad," I say, touching her damaged head.
"Took her this morning. Old injuries. She healed up fine. She's healthy as a horse; don't go feeling sorry for her. That's what she wants."
His words hit me: old injuries ... healed up fine ... healthy as a horse ... sorry for her ... that's what she wants. I swallow hard. That's me. I'm healed. I'm healthy. I don't want people to feel sorry for me though. I want them to ignore me. At least that's what I've always wanted up until I moved to San Diego. I don't know what I want anymore. And that's not a bad thing. Uncertainty is the beginning of change. Maybe it's time for change.
He puts his hand up to shield his mouth, as if the cat won't be able to hear him. "She's awesome, though. I just don't want it going to her head or she'll fucking own me more than she already does and I'll turn into a crazy cat lady. I may be about ninety-seven percent there already, and I've only known her for about eight hours. She's going to work me over. Hard. I just know it."
I'm pretty sure Gustov just earned about ten points in the nice department with all of this. Physically, he's this huge man. Who's also a rock star. Who lives with and adores his mom. Who befriended Paxton in an instant. And he's just rescued a hurt, stray kitten. He's definitely not the man I thought he was a few months ago. He's ... just ... good. And goddamn ... that's attractive.