Minnie’s Meow Meow House was indeed a house. The low wooden structure had started as a simple cabin but had been added on to in weird and wonderful ways, making it a rambling haven for homeless cats. It smelled like fresh cat litter and the special catnip potpourri Minnie Faye made especially for her charges.

Minnie Faye and her husband, Hubert, had a soft spot for strays. Together with their gigantic hearts, they’d built a rainbow of a family, first with foster and adopted children and now with fur babies.

Minnie Faye was currently in the Meow Meow House’s front office scrutinizing my nine-page adoption application, my three reference letters, and credit report.

“What about that one?” Scarlett pointed at an orange ball of fluff hanging upside down from his spacious cage’s ceiling. His meow was closer to a shriek.

We were in Cat Room Number Two. Each room had a different theme. This one was kitten posters. They’d plastered the green pine-paneled walls in a glossy, fluffy mural of cute.

I winced. That cat was exactly the kind of hellion Scarlett Bodine would be attracted to. She stood there entranced, peering through the cage door. The kitten, sensing an audience, launched himself at the front door of the cage, mewling plaintively.

“I’m more in the market for a fat lump that I have to pick up to vacuum under,” I told her. But Scarlett was still staring at the kitten with a mix of adulation and longing.

June sneezed and blew her nose. Though allergic to cats, my sister had insisted on helping me choose my first pet.

“Why don’t you adopt him?” I said to Scarlett, stepping around her to stare into the next cage.

Bonded pair, read the sign.

I couldn’t imagine a stranger pair. One cat was gray and black and looked to weigh about twenty pounds. He was too lazy to open both eyes to observe me. Instead, he settled for one. The other cat was a skinny, long-legged tabby that alternated between licking its own butthole and biting the tip of its tail.

“You could name the large, handsome one George,” June suggested, peering over my shoulder. She sounded like she was pinching her nose closed.

“George?” I asked. The larger of the cats not obsessed with his butthole lifted his head, made eye contact with me, and yawned.

“George Thompson, more commonly known as GT Thompson, the most consistent receiver in the league.” Some women crushed on shirtless models on Instagram. My sister preferred to admire a man’s football stats.

I chewed on my lip and wondered if I was committing to this cat lady lifestyle too early. Maybe I should go on one more date? Or maybe I should ask Bowie for one more slow dance…

No! I couldn’t spend the rest of my life thinking maybe someday.

“I’ll take them,” I decided. I’d given up on Bowie a long time ago and didn’t need to open that box or door or whatever the hell it was again. One dinner and a steamy slow dance did not mean a man was interested. And it sure as hell didn’t mean I had to be interested either.

George was gazing at me like he could see into my soul. He sneezed, making his younger, skinnier partner freak out and jump across the cage floor. The little one shot me an accusatory look and then immediately flopped over on its back to view me from upside down.

“I can’t bring a cat home,” Scarlett lamented. “We don’t have room for Devlin’s shoe collection, let alone a whole entire cat. Where would I put his food dish?”

“Y’all want to meet any of the cats?” Maribel Schilling, a part-time volunteer at the Meow Meow House, asked, sticking her beehived head in the doorway.

“I’d like to meet these two,” I told her.

“What the hell? Gimme a shot at this guy,” Scarlett decided, pointing at little Lucifer, who was violently attacking his tail while sitting in his water dish.

“You want one, June Bug?” I asked.

She sneezed four times in a row. “Cats are too independent. The ideal pet is a potbellied pig.”

“A pig? You’re going to make a tolerant man very confused someday,” I predicted.

Maribel led us into the meet and greet cat room. This room had a big bay window and a half dozen armchairs.

“Have a seat, y’all. We’ll be back with your fur babies.”

“Do you have any pigs?” June asked.

“Sorry, pumpkin. Just kitties here.”

June blew her nose noisily and flopped down on a pink-checkered armchair. “She said ‘your’ to make you feel obligated to complete the adoption. She’s assigning ownership. It’s basic psychology.” She sneezed three times in rapid succession. The tissue pile on the arm of her chair was growing rapidly.

“Why the sudden need for cats anyway?” Scarlett asked, pacing back and forth like an expectant parent.

I sighed and perched on the rolled arm of a recliner. “I’m giving up, y’all.”

“Giving up on what? Not being covered in cat hair?” Scarlett asked.

“Dating. Looking for Mr. Right. Or even Mr. Semi-Okay and Tolerable,” I announced.

Scarlett stopped mid-pace. “You can’t give up. You’re only twenty-six years old.”

“Twenty-seven,” I corrected. Scarlett always forgot about the few months when we were a whole birth year apart. “Twenty-seven and no closer to finding a guy I could stand for the rest of my life than when I was ten years old. I don’t think it’s healthy to keep looking. My life isn’t that bad. Hell, it’s pretty great. I love my job. I have my own house. I live near my family. I can see your weird face anytime I want. And now I’ll have two furry kids that I can leave home alone for long hours and will still want to snuggle with me at night.”

Scarlett stared at me like I’d announced I was turning in my gun and badge and becoming a kindergarten teacher. “This displeases me,” she said finally.

June squinted her puffy red eyes at us. “I don’t understand why women waste so much time looking for relationships. You could be doing so many more important things with your time. Learning foreign languages, studying the tax code, building an investment strategy.”

June’s apathy toward love was legendary and baffling to Scarlett and me. While we’d watched Pretty in Pink forty-seven times the summer between our freshman and sophomore years in high school, June had created an underground football fantasy league for our classmates.

Now, I was jumping ship, too. To Scarlett, who’d discovered the love of her life right next door—just who in the hell did that happen to anyway—it was appalling. We’d been planning weddings and great loves since elementary school. My goal was to find what my parents had and replicate it. Her goal was to do better than her parents had.

Jonah and Constance had fallen hard for each other in high school and had never grown into their relationship. Petty jealousies, mistrust, and volatile fights followed by frigid days of silence were the hallmarks of Scarlett’s childhood. One night in fourth grade, Scarlett had slept over at my house after her parents indulged in a particularly nasty fight. She’d confessed to me her mama claimed she would have divorced him years ago but couldn’t afford to. He’d thrown a scratch-off at her and told her to do them both a favor and get a lawyer.

That stuck with me. I’d snuck out of my room after she’d fallen asleep and tiptoed downstairs. Mom and Dad were sprawled out on the couch, Dad’s head in Mom’s lap. The TV on low while they both read their respective books. I’d hugged them both hard that night.

One night, a long time ago, Bowie had called my dad. He needed help breaking up an argument. It had started between Jonah and Constance. Then seventeen-year-old Gibson had gotten involved. My dad hadn’t even paused to put his uniform on. He ran out of the house in his sweatpants. He’d come back an hour later with all four of the Bodine kids. The adults had calmed down, but the kids needed some soothing. My mom treated it like a big party. She made us midnight pancakes, and we all camped in the living room watching The Sandlot. I’d loved them even more for that night.

Scarlett had outdone her parents’ relationship by finding Devlin.

And I had given up.

But when Maribel dumped twenty pounds of Handsome George into my lap, I felt a little something like love. And that was good enough for me.

I’d given up on Bowie a long time ago. Closed my heart to the man. One slow dance wasn’t going to open those creaky doors again. I didn’t need him to have a full, fun, interesting life.

Handsome George reached up with one paw and placed it over my heart as if to tell me that everything was going to be just fine. I believed him. Cats didn’t lie.

“Oh. My. Goodness,” Scarlett crooned, snuggling the devil in fur to her face. “I love you to tiny little bits.”

Potential George looked up at me, and I swear that dang cat smiled. His partner in crime clawed his way up the back of the chair and perched neat as you please on my shoulder, his tail twitching against my neck. He blinked his yellow-green eyes at me slowly.

“I’m textin’ Devlin,” Scarlett announced. “We’re gettin’ a cat, y’all!”

“Wait,” June said, holding out one hand while blowing her nose with the other. “I’ll take your picture. It will be harder for him to say no.”

Scarlett juggled cat and phone and assumed the appropriate position.

“Make your eyes wider and sadder,” June ordered.