She meowed again as if to say, “Yeah, and I don’t like you either.” Then she bumped his hand with her head. She actually let him touch her.
Brit smiled and ran his fingers over her chin. “Admit you missed me, and I’ll admit that I thought about you, too.”
She purred and brushed up against his hand again.
“Okay, here’s the deal, you can stay. But if you tell anyone we actually like each other, I’m taking you to the shelter.”
The cat meowed and then leapt off the bed. Brit lay back down. Beg? His eyes drifted shut.
“Do you want to talk about Cali?” a female voice asked.
Brit shot straight up. A middle-aged woman—red hair, big blue eyes, dangling a cigarette between her fingers and wearing a navy business suit—sat at the foot of his bed.
“Who the hell are you?” Brit wiped his eyes.
“If it waddles like a duck, quacks like a duck, it’s probably a duck.”
“So you’re a duck?” He raked another hand over his face. This had to be a dream. He had locked his door, hadn’t he?
“No. And neither are you.” She inhaled a puff of smoke and let it out slowly. “That’s a big part of why you’re so scared.”
“What am I scared of?” he tossed out, now pretty certain this was a dream.
“Why, love, of course. But you’re not like him. Or her.” A row of about six gold bracelets jiggled on her arm. “You got a good heart. Sure, you’re hard-headed, but you play fair more than most people do. And you care a hell of a lot more than most. You’re a softy.”
Confusion settled in his gut. “What are you talking . . .? Who are you?”
“You’re no duck, Brit Lowell. You speak before you think, I’ll give you that, but my daughter isn’t milquetoast either.”
“Daughter?”
“You want to be forgiven. Then you best learn to forgive. It’s part of the fixing process.”
A ringing noise sounded as his mind began piecing together the question. “Are you Cali’s mom?”
Brit suddenly woke up to the sound of the ringing phone. He looked at the phone then back at the foot of the bed. No woman. He inhaled. Air scented with cigarette smoke hitched in his lungs. He snatched the phone, his heart thumping. Had he just seen a ghost?
“Hello?”
“Brit? It’s your mom.”
He continued to look around the room.
“I know your voice, Mom. Is something wrong?” Had Frank or Fred or whatever his name was hurt her? His chest gripped with concern.
“No. Yes. I’d love to see my son.”
His first impulse was to come up with some excuse, but he heard the woman voice from his dream. You want to be forgiven? You best learn to forgive.
He gritted his teeth, then said, “Can you make some coffee? Strong coffee. And I’ll be there in about an hour.”
~
Later that day, after an almost pleasant visit with his mom, Brit knocked on Cali’s door, holding a bag in his trembling hands. A man about Brit’s age—a good looking guy, maybe too good looking—opened the door and Brit’s stomach dropped.
Was this why she hadn’t called him back? Was he too late?
Jealously rolled over Brit’s heart. Pride made him want to walk away, love kept his feet planted in front of the door. Beg.
“Is Cali here?” His voice rang hoarse. When the man’s brows creased, Brit continued, “I’m not leaving until I see her.”
“But—”
“There are no buts. I love her, even though I was stupid about it.” Damn, this hurt and the thought of this man with the woman he loved just about chewed up his insides. “I’m not a duck.” Shit! Had he said that aloud?
“You smoking something, buddy?” the man asked.
“Just let me see her.” Brit stepped forward.
The man’s posture grew defensive. “Look, you’ve got—”
“I know, I got a set of balls to show up here after I screwed up. But I’m not walking away. I’m fighting for her. And if that means you and I go to fist city, right now, right here, I’m fine with it.”
“Fighting for who?” A woman appeared at the door, holding a bowl of soup. She glanced at the man standing next to her. “Are you seeing someone else?”
“No,” he said. “I swear. This idiot is talking about ducks and some chick named Cali.”
“I told you if you ever did that again, I was leaving,” the woman said, sounding angry.
“But I didn’t do anything.”
“Cali doesn’t live here?” Brit asked, as the couple started to throw verbal punches.
“Who’s he seeing?” The woman stopped screaming long enough to ask Brit. “Is it that bimbo at the gym? It is, isn’t it?” She turned to leave, but decided it wasn’t enough and she swung back around and slung the bowl of soup at the man. Only half the soup missed the man and landed on Brit. Not that he didn’t deserve it.
He looked down at the bits of alphabet pasta clinging to his jacket, then at the number on the door to make sure. “You guys just moved in here, didn’t you?”
The man knocked bits of carrots off his face and frowned at Brit.