Just Like Fate. Cat Patrick
need to make a right here,” he says, sounding defeated. I ease my foot on the gas, making the turn.
“My grandmother died,” I whisper. It feels like saying it can make it happen all over again.
“I’m so sorry,” Chris says. “When?”
“Tonight.”
“Oh.” It’s a stunned word, a sad one. Chris looks out the window. And now I’m the one who can’t handle the silence.
“We’re not leaving the state, are we?” I ask him, filling the void. “Because I’m pretty sure I’ve crossed four county lines already.”
“Why? You want to make a run for it, Thelma.”
Despite all that’s weighing me down, I choke out a small laugh.
“That was a laugh,” he says, pointing at me. “Sure, it was a pathetic one, but it means all is not lost. I’m still impressive.”
I fight back my smile. “Which way, Christopher?” He starts giving directions, and I turn left down a residential street.
“It’s around here somewhere,” he says under his breath.
I look over at him. “Are you telling me that you don’t know where your friend lives?”
“Of course I know,” he says. “It’s just that at night, all the streets look the same. But it’s definitely in this neighborhood. I remember that old church on the corner.”
I groan and slow down to ten miles per hour as he studies the houses on one side, then the other. He snaps his fingers, startling me.
“I just realized that you never told me your name,” he says. “What is it?”
“Caroline.”
“That’s pretty.”
“Thanks.”
“And sweet.” He’s quiet, but the minute he opens his mouth, I interrupt.
“You’re not going to break into ‘Sweet Caroline,’ are you?” He abruptly closes his mouth and shakes his head no. When I see that it’s nearly eleven and Simone still hasn’t returned my calls, I feel abandoned. And then I wonder if this is how Gram felt in her last moments.
“Wait, there it is,” Chris says, motioning to the left side. “The one with the truck in the driveway.” He scoffs. “See. I knew exactly where it was.”
I pull to the curb, letting the engine idle as Chris checks for his wallet and keys. When he’s done—taking way longer than necessary—he clears his throat. “Do you think I can call you sometime?” he asks.
There’s a weird twist of excitement and sadness mixed together as I look at him. “Are you hitting on me five minutes after I told you that my grandmother died?” I ask.
He winces. “Wow, I’m a douche, huh?” He says it so innocently that I have to smile, even though I feel like a traitor for the gesture. Chris runs his hand through his hair, embarrassment painting his cheeks pink in the light of the streetlights.
“You’re fine,” I say. “It’s me. I’m running a little high on the bitch-o-meter tonight. I’m not myself.” I look down. “I don’t know if I ever will be again.”
“I really am sorry about your grandmother, Caroline,” Chris says in his most serious tone of the night. I mean to look at him, to thank him, but I’m afraid if I do, I’ll give him the wrong idea. And I can’t be that selfish—not this time.
“You seem really great,” I tell him. “I’m just not in a good place. My life’s a mess, and you deserve better than that.”
“That’s possibly the nicest rejection I’ve ever gotten,” Chris says, soft but playful. “So thank you for that.” He opens the door and climbs out. Under different circumstances, I would have given him my number. Just not tonight.
“Well, Caroline,” he says as he holds up his hand in a wave. “Sweet Caroline. It was a pleasure meeting you—officially. Maybe next time I’ll get that number.”
There’s a small panic that I may never see him again, and so despite my vow to not lead him on, I smile. “Tell you what, if I ever happen to randomly run into you when I’m not crying and miserable, the digits are all yours.”
Chris grins. “I’ll hold you to that.” And then he closes the door and jogs up the driveway.
I wake up on Saturday, the morning after the worst day of my life so far, and my sister’s asleep next to me. I don’t know when she came in, but I’m surprised to find that I don’t mind that she’s here. Whatever changed between us at the hospital seems to be still in effect, and having her here is like a silent peace treaty after years at war. Except that her presence reminds me of the reality that Gram’s dead.
I don’t move; I don’t even feel like I’m breathing. I listen to the erratic drum of rain hitting the gutter outside, trying to force my thoughts away from Gram. They land on wondering whether the back window of my car is still cracked open from when Felicity thought she was going to puke after lunch yesterday. I wonder if it was cracked when I went to see—
Gram’s dead.
It hits me again: the helplessness and the heartache. I actually put my hand to my chest; I feel like I’ll never take a deep breath again. But still, I don’t cry. Why don’t I cry?
I think of the way she looked just before she died. I think of standing by her bedside, listening to her talk. Those will be the last things she ever says. The thought makes my stomach tighten like a fist.
To calm myself, I think of all the mundane things I still have to do. Like walking a cat. “Freaking Junior,” I mutter.
“What?” Natalie says, her voice groggy.
“Sorry,” I say quietly. I slip out of the bed. “Go back to sleep.” I gather my messy hair into a ponytail, shrug into a sweatshirt, and step into shearling boots before leaving my room.
I skip my morning routine and head downstairs because what does a cat care about fresh breath? He sure doesn’t have it. And this way, I can pee in my own bathroom instead of the one with the stepstool for Judith. I always trip over that thing.
“Where are you going?” Mom asks from behind me. My hand freezes on the front door handle. She’s always been eerily quiet—she could make a career out of sneaking up on people.
“Just down to Gram’s,” I say without turning around. For some reason, I don’t want to see my mom’s face—her sadness. “She told me to check up on Junior. I hope I can manage to get him out from under her bed.”
“I need to add that to my list,” Mom says absentmindedly. Finally, because it’s getting weird, I turn around. She looks . . . empty. She’s fixated on an old water stain on the antique hall table. “We need to find him a home,” she says.
“What?” I ask, surprised. “You can’t do that. Gram loved that cat.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll find someone else who loves him just as much,” Mom says, eyes still on the stain. There’s no fire in her words: She says them like she’s programmed to do so.
“I’ll take care of him,” I protest, staring intently at Mom—needing her to look at me.
“Albert’s allergic to cats. And