When we reached my building, Tommy began saying goodbye to Frankie and the mouse that would one day be a real cat, if we could keep it alive long enough for that to happen. I was relieved that he was going to spend a night taking care of himself. Maybe I could convince him to take more nights off. I could totally handle this new… adventure. And if he still insisted on helping out, who knew how long it would be before he got another night free from nursing duty of one sort or another. And the doctor assured me that it would be at least a week before this thing did more than sleep and eat. Maybe I could snack every time she did. We’d be snack buddies. Wait, was he saying something to me?
“Sorry, I zoned out for a second. What was that?”
He grinned and waved some papers the tech had given me, and I tried to remember what they said. “Go, relax, help Frankie do his new-daddy thing. I did some research while you were going door-to-door earlier, so I’m gonna run around the corner — hit the pet warehouse and good ol’ Bullet-hole to pick up everything on this list and, if you can stay awake until I get back, I can grab us dinner because I’m pretty sure you didn’t get a chance to eat with Thing 1 and Thing 2 driving you crazy.”
“I just called it Bullet-hole one time…” I said, because I wasn’t sure how to address everything in that really long sentence.
“It’s forever Bullet-hole now. Accept it.”
It was hard to argue with Tommy when he got into one of his playfully pushy moods, but I still tried. “You really don’t have to go shopping. It’s your night off. Go home, relax…”
“Nope. Shopping blitz, pizza, and then I get to cuddle with your dog and his kitten while the rest of the world sleeps. That’s way more fun than laundry.” It would have been the perfect parting shot as he danced backwards towards his car, but Tommy’s shoulder smacked into the doorway of the parking garage and he nearly fell on his ass. So he shouted, “Shut up! And don’t look at me with that– that face!”
I considered calling out to him that I couldn’t look at him with anyone else’s face, but I was entranced by the sway of his hips as he sashayed away with his head held high. I sighed and looked at my pug, who took his eyes off his baby just long enough to roll them at me.
As soon as we returned home, I put my keys and wallet in the fruit bowl and my shoes safely out of Frankie’s reach in the China cabinet. My pug had a tendency to stress-chew every leather item and left shoe he could get his paws on, and I had a feeling that new fatherhood would provoke a great deal of anxiety. Taking care not to jostle the sleeping kitten unduly, I flopped down on the couch, exhausted and surveyed the mess. It seemed as though everything two feet above the ground had been hurled about my apartment by the miniature tornado that was my nephew. He actually was very careful with my things, but he spent hours naked picking up everything he could reach —and several things he couldn’t— asking an average of 3.2 questions about each and then leaving it when he spotted the next object. I didn’t have the energy to pick it all up, but the kitten was sleeping and I had a feeling that Tommy would put everything away as soon as I went to sleep. So I deposited Frankie and the kitten on the doggie bed Frankie had been insulted to receive, but it had sides the critter could not yet scale. They slept soundly for the next fifty-four minutes, during which I cleaned up the apartment and voice-texted up a storm.
Tommy sent me photos of purchases and I managed to talk him out of a few of the things he attempted to buy, suggesting she was too young and/or we should check reviews and prices online. When he argued, I told him that I didn’t want him spending all his money on my pug’s cat, but he just sent me a picture of his shopping bags, saying, “So there!”
Regardless of the actual words communicated, I knew Tommy and Tommy knew me. He was anxious about being prepared for every possible eventuality and buying things for older animals out of a desperate need for optimism. I, on the other hand, tended toward pragmatism and wanted to take this a day at a time. We both knew that her chances were iffy, and having stuff for an older kitten would depress the hell out of me. I tried to gain some emotional distance and consider her Schrodinger’s kitten in my head —she was simultaneously going to be fine and live forever while also having never existed— but one mew from her was enough to shatter that.
I also texted my —okay, Chance’s— friend Dani, because she would tell her husband Greg, and then Tommy’s best friend would know what was going on and could be there for him. Tommy would tell him eventually, Greg wasn’t as omniscient as he acted, and it would be nice if he was ready to chat. He and Tommy were both awake all night, and I wanted to be sure our new co-daddy had support right from the start.
Then I sent my sister pictures I’d taken throughout the evening, and she thanked me for taking care of her babies. I reminded her that, if she’d allowed me to have help from my friends, Xander would have captured the priceless moment in which horror crossed her son’s face upon seeing me prepare a bath for his sister. To be fair, I did do my best to upset him by using fragrance-free, dye-free, organic dish soap to wash the little fiend. My sister responded with the reminder that I wouldn’t have saved the kitten or have Tommy’s nightly help if she hadn’t added her brilliantly diabolical, punnily-named ‘Stipulation of Moore-less-ness.’
Finally, I texted Xander to tell his husband not to expect Frankie tomorrow, under the mistaken impression that that would keep Julian from sending a barrage of excited texts. At least the pocketed-shirt search gave Julian an outlet, because he and his brothers were all mother hens in a previous life. Then Xander and Chance texted to thank me, because it would take less than twenty-four hours for the Moore teens to start discussing fostering pregnant and orphaned animals. Even I hadn’t missed Xander’s kids’ pointed comments about their poor, lonely boxer, all the hands in their household that had no animals to pet, their desperate need to pass on the love that Xander and Julian were showering them with, and of course the fact that their cousins had two dogs and two cats.
My pug and I shared a mildly-panicked look when the little one began to stir. The vet had said not to feed her for a little while until she was fully warmed up, but the little creature seemed so pitiful and what else could she want? Luckily the spare key in the lock sounded and we breathed a sigh of relief as though it were the trumpet call that hailed a superhero’s entrance — because, quite frankly, it did. Arms laden with pizza and various kitten necessities, Tommy walked in and saved the day yet again. He whipped out a pink fleece baby blanket and rolled it around the kitten.
“Here, hold the purrito,” he said and handed me the kitten, who had calmed noticeably, before digging around in another bag. He then pulled out a toothbrush and brushed it over her head. Her little paws began kneading the air. “They say this is like a mother’s tongue. It’s soothing and will eventually teach her to groom herself.”
“Should we wet it first? Or use kitten-fur-paste or something?” I asked, because a kitten-not-tooth brush ought to have kitten-not-tooth paste. Frankie sniffed the kitten and watched Tommy’s actions in fascination.
“No fur-paste. I suppose we could wet it, but not tonight. I also got some special wet-wipes we can use after eating and weeing and…” he began to dig around in the bag, and I put a hand on his arm.
“Relax. You watch the purrito while I grab some plates. We’ll eat, and then get everyone settled in for the night.” I handed him the toothbrush and the package that was more blanket than cat and stood, Frankie swiftly taking my place in order to more closely observe Tommy’s kitten-soothing magic. I made a quick detour to safely stash Tommy’s lovely boots in the hutch and then retrieved and unwrapped a small, long-forgotten package from my bedroom, before going to the kitchen. I had forgotten how restlessly efficient Tommy could be. By the time I returned, Tommy had already set up a perfectly-sized box-nest and settled both animals inside, and he sat whispering to Frankie while rubbing his ear just the way he likes it. Occasionally Tommy visited Julian Moore during the day while Frankie was visiting, but this was the first time I’d seen them together in months and it broke my heart a little to see how much they loved each other.
I rubbed my eyes as if I was simply tired and sat down on the couch. Before Tommy grabbed his plate, I handed him the item I’d planned to give him months ago. It wasn’t entirely appropriate to give this to an ex-boyfriend, but these were definitely unusual circumstances. He paused a long moment, looking from me to the item and back again, before taking it.
“It’s to the apartment,” I told him unnecessarily. He swallowed and stared at the key in his hand. “So you can come and go as you please.”
“Tha–” He cleared his throat. “Thank you.”
“Chance and Xander and Dani and my sister and the Moores all have keys to the place, and I figure you’ll be spending a lot of time here. This way, you can come and go as you please,” I explained, because I was feeling incredibly awkward.
“Okay… I like the keychain.”
Of course he did, because I bought it for him, personalizing the collection of Supernatural-themed charms from a jewelry artist online. He knew that, and he knew I knew that he knew, but I couldn’t stop myself from acting as though it was just a random item I’d unearthed from a drawer: “It’s my favorite show. Put it somewhere safe.”
“If you had given me a little warning, I wouldn’t have raced out of my apartment without pants yet again,” he groused, patting his sides as if searching for a pocket. Although he was technically wearing pants, they weren’t anything he’d typically choose to wear in public. I wondered how many different pairs of pink flannel pajama pants he owned, and briefly considered doing this regularly until he began repeating himself. Today’s were covered with smiling cupcakes and ice cream cones. He also wore the same pink flip flops as during our E.R. visit, but this time each toe was painted a different color.
“You look cute,” I told him and he released the expected disgusted groan. “Maybe you should invest in a fanny pack.”
“I’m not getting a fanny pack. Ever.”
“A purse?”
“I prefer to call it a miniature messenger bag,” he said snootily as he took a bite of his pizza slice. “I’ll leave this key by the door in case we have some kitten emergencies. Or you send me a vague 911 text because you can’t find the remote control.” I must not have been able to keep a straight face at the sight of him talking as he chewed, because he smirked and said, “Hey, we’re not dating anymore. I’m going to fart in front of you, too.”
“Oh no!!! Not farting! Tommy Powers doesn’t have bodily functions!” I cried. “It’s all just sunshine and rainbows and glitter!”
At that, he took a sip of his soda and released an epic belch.