A little later, after we order and devour cold sesame noodles and chicken lo mein while sitting cross-legged on the couch, a large black tabby strides out of the bedroom.
I do a double-take. “You have a cat?”
“I do?”
“I don’t know, Bryn. Do you?”
“I had no idea. Is there a cat here?”
The black cat lifts his chin, sniffs the air, and saunters over to us. He stands on his back legs, setting his paws on Bryn’s knees. “Meow?”
I hold up an I’ve got this hand. “My cat translator is telling me he’s asking for a bite.”
“Did you wake up to ask for food, Bruce, you handsome devil?” She reaches out and strokes his head. He presses against her, and as he does, the light plays across his fur, revealing that he’s almost . . . striped.
“Your cat has cool markings. It’s almost like he’s got stripes, but only in certain light.”
“I considered calling him Jailbird, since he looks like he’s wearing a prison jumpsuit,” she says. “Plus, he’s kind of on house arrest here if you think about it.”
“I suppose all cats are on house arrest, then. Life is like a jail for cats,” I say, hanging my head in mock sadness.
She pats my shoulder. “It’s okay. His jailer is good to him. He gets three squares a day, plus an hour out of solitary for exercise. And here, I have cat exercise toys.”
“You are an excellent cat warden. But he’s not named Jailbird?”
“I called him that at first, but then one day I was listening to Bruce Springsteen—”
“I thought you only liked pop?”
“Hush. Bruce is like pizza. Everyone loves pizza. Have you ever met someone who doesn’t like pizza?”
“No. I can’t say I have.”
“Should I have named him Pizza, then?”
I laugh. “Not a bad name for a cat. Or Pepperoni. Anyway, how did Jailbird become Bruce?”
“So, I was listening to ‘I’m on Fire,’ and the cat actually sat on my chest. It was the first time he was borderline affectionate with me. I briefly wondered if he was trying to suffocate me, but then I thought maybe he just liked Bruce. So, I tested out the name—I called him Bruce, and he gave the faintest lift of his chin.”
“Ah, a clear sign.”
“Exactly. So I named him Bruce.”
“My incarcerated cat is named Queen Of Tofu.”
She shoots me an appreciative look. “Excellent name. You must send me a photo.”
“I believe that can be arranged,” I say, thinking of her Instagram account.
We return to our late-night meal as Bruce flops at Bryn’s feet, rolling to his side and showing off his dark-striped belly.
When we’re done eating, Bryn’s eyes light up. “I almost forgot something.”
My brow knits. “Fortune cookies?”
She laughs, shaking her head as she points to my phone. “We need to leave a review for the driver. From the Lyft.”
I smile, loving that she’s a woman of her word. That she remembered a promise she made to a Lyft driver.
I click on the app. “Want to do the honors?”
“I do.” She gives him five stars, then talks as she types. “Friendly, considerate, and sure knows his restaurant recs.”
Then she hits submit, and my chest warms. It’s the little things that matter.
And I like this little thing.
I like this woman too.
But it’s late, and I have work in the morning, so after I clean up, I tell her I have to go. “I’ll text you tomorrow. We’ll do this again?”
“Definitely.”
I haul her in for a hot, hard kiss. “There is so much more to do,” I say in a low, dirty growl.
“Can’t wait to find out what that might be.”
I cup her cheeks, smooth out her hair. “I had a great time with you.”
