To Hiss or to Kiss (6 page)

Jorge continues to say nothing, his head tilted away to avoid eye contact. I snort, but he still ignores me. I half expect him to just walk out of the room and point at the door.

The shot of whisky I downed makes my head spin a little as my blood pressure rises. I am so angry I seriously consider throwing my Dalwhinnie at his head
.
But I am still rational enough to withstand the temptation and instead stand abruptly and walk in the direction of the kitchen.

I see the bottle of Dalwhinnie on the counter and take it and my Glencairn glass and walk back to the living room and to the door. “Fine. I’ll leave now.”

He looks up, finally, his eyebrows rising in surprise as he sees what I’m carrying, but he still says nothing. And his face resumes its stoic expression. Bastard.

I turn and walk out, slamming the door behind me.

Goddamn men and goddamn me for stupidly letting myself get all twitterpated by this guy. I so know better than that. And I didn’t even get a kiss out of it. My pride keeps me from stomping back into the house and kissing the holy hell out of him until he has no choice but to fuck me. My anger keeps me somewhat sane as I stomp to my car and get in. I open the Dalwhinnie and carefully pour my remaining whisky back in the bottle. No sense wasting it, and if I take another shot I won’t be able to drive home. I’ve already been stupid enough for one night. A few more drinks can wait until I get home.

Satisfied I’ve gotten all the whisky from the glass, I replace the stopper, set the Dalwhinnie down and prepare to drive home. Knuckles white on the steering wheel, I fight the urge to bang my head against it. Instead, I start the car and put it in reverse. As I back out of his driveway and head out onto the quiet road, I remember why I keep my distance from people. Navigating human relationships is generally way too difficult and painful to be even remotely worth it. And no matter how much I don’t want to admit it as I drive back home, I really wanted a relationship with Jorge
.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. You don’t even know this guy.

Another small voice whispers:
but your heart does.

I emphatically shake my head, then crank up the radio and sing along to distract myself for the rest of the ride.

Chapter Five

I awake the next morning—thank God it’s Saturday—to sun streaming in from behind the blinds. A glance at the clock shows it’s 11:13 a.m., and I groan. My head is pounding. Definitely too much scotch and, dammit, a man shouldn’t be worth this. But shame and anger tend to make me, and probably just about everyone else on the planet, a little crazy. I feel like shit and figure I look about the same.

As I drag my sorry ass to the bathroom and my brain fog starts to clear, I remember I’m supposed to be at the humane society by noon today. I more often go in on Sundays, but this week they needed extra people on Saturday. However, there’s no way I’m going to be of any use to anyone. So after taking care of business in the bathroom, I find my cell and text Barb.
Not feeling well. Need to stay in bed.

Shortly I get a response.
We’ll be fine without you. You OK?

Yeah, just imbibed a bit too much last night.

Ah, sometimes that happens. You let me know if you need anything.

Thanks. I will.

After hitting Send, I start to wonder if I really am OK. Even without a hangover I would probably be unwilling to get out of bed. Thoughts of my encounter with Jorge last night make me want to crawl in a hole. How can I feel rejected and juvenile at the same time?

Because he didn’t kiss you and you fled—and stole—like a moody teenager.

My brain, sluggish as it is, still finds a way to go into panic mode.
I almost kissed a cat.
I wonder if he has a vomeronasal organ from his cat side. God, his sense of smell must be better than a human’s. Could he smell my arousal? Was that how he knew what I was thinking? At least he didn’t hang his mouth open when he got all up close and personal like my cats do when they use said vomeronasal organ. I like to call it sniff-tasting, but I’m sure there’s a more scientific term.

Oh God, I am such a moron. Who just meets a guy, gets tackled by him in the dark when sneaking around on someone else’s property, shares secrets, goes to his house, and gets all hot and bothered? What the hell is wrong with me? And I so know better than to drink too much. I can’t even remember the last time I had a hangover and it’s sure as hell never been over a man. A man whom I
trusted
.

Actually, I’m not sure I ever really trusted him, but I came closer than with any other stranger I’ve ever met.
So there’s that.

My navy comforter is knotted in my hands and Sashi is looking at me like I’ve really, truly, finally gone off the deep end. I realize I’m anthropomorphizing her. She doesn’t really think I’m insane; she’s way too rational for that. Sometimes knowing what cats really think ruins a perfectly good image, though. And a lot of jokes on the Internet.

Enoki comes in with his characteristic loud meow, jumps up, and awkwardly headbutts me. His concern is palpable and his presence helps calm me down. I scratch his head, really wanting to hug him but knowing he doesn’t much like it. Then I hear him. “
You can hug me, Chloe. Seems you need it
.”

I almost start crying as I bunch him in my arms.

He even starts to purr. “
I know you like it
,” he tells me.

I have the best cats, and I determine not to sulk all day over another cat.

Before I can decide otherwise I text Naomi.
Bring ice cream ASAP.

A few minutes later I get a beep.
Uh oh. What’s up?
And then almost immediately,
Duh. Tell me when I get there. Give me 20.

K.

Since I have at least thirty minutes—Naomi’s notoriously late—I decide to shower after downing two ibuprofen tablets. Hot, steamy water succeeds in washing away at least part of my headache and some of the embarrassment and anger of the previous night. The ibuprofen takes the edge off.

Rationally, I know I just met Jorge and there’s no reason to be so upset that he was having doubts about kissing me. It’s not that I’m a total catch or anything. And it’s not like everyone kisses when they first meet—even if they are feeling it. And Jorge was definitely feeling it.

I suppose it’s better to have second thoughts, though, than hook up and regret it. I’ve never been one to just jump in the sack unless I was specifically trolling for a one-night stand, and what I was feeling with Jorge was definitely not of the one-night stand variety. And after sharing my secret and learning his, we were way past the point where a one-night stand would work. That’s probably all part of the reason I freaked out so much when he didn’t kiss me. I feel like I bared my soul and got slapped down.

Of course, I’m no good at relationships, so it’s probably for the best that this one never gets started. During my few and far between “relationships,” I generally tell myself that I’m trying to make it work while really I’m looking for a way out. Guess I’m more my mother’s daughter than I give her credit for. I haven’t seen or heard from her since I was ten.

The memory prompts a wave of anger and I apply extra vigor to sudsing my hair. A hangover morning isn’t the time to figure out anything about my fear of relationships or my parental baggage.

At least I look halfway presentable by the time Naomi arrives.

* * *

“Whoa. You look like shit. I see the need for ice cream.” Naomi brushes past me inside the house and heads to the kitchen. She knows where to find spoons, so. I settle in my maroon, overstuffed, comfy chair I snagged at a thrift store years ago and await her return. It doesn’t take long for her to return from the kitchen and hand me a pint of Häagen-Dazs.

Naomi settles with her own pint on my dark brown couch, that particular piece of furniture rescued from a garage sale. The couch looks an awful lot like Jorge’s, except way more broken in.

“So what’s up? Is this about the dogs?” She knew what I was planning to do last night and tried to talk me out of it because, as she told me, best friends try to stop each other from doing stupid, dangerous things no matter how worthy the cause. But she still let me go. Best friends also know when best friends won’t listen. And Naomi might be stubborn, but so am I.

“Unfortunately, no. Although I did make brief contact with one of them. I think there’re five.”

“Fucking assholes. I hope they get ’em.” Naomi stabs her pint of ice cream for emphasis.

“Me, too.” I take my own frustration out on the ice cream.

Naomi is thoughtful for a second, and we both take bites of ice cream as if to wash the bad taste of dogfighting from our mouths. “So if not the dogs, I’m thinking a man.” She locks eyes with me, a gleeful
aha
look on her face. “Is it your mindspeak buddy? I just knew there was something there.”

I feel myself begin to flush.

Naomi sets down her ice cream and leans forward. A quick study of whatever tragic emotion is making its way to my face softens her tone from glee to concern. “Do you need a hug? Do you even want to talk about it or just eat ice cream?”

“No, I’m OK. I mean more or less. I don’t know if I can talk about it.” I pause, images of last night flashing through my head. I feel angry and sad, and then I realize I’m crying.
Shit
. I need to get over this hangover if I’m crying. I seriously don’t cry except when animals die in movies.

“Oh, bullshit you don’t need a hug.” She walks over, takes my ice cream, and pulls me up into a hug.

I am so badly off I don’t even fight the affection as I normally would.

“I think this deserves curling up in bed.” She steers me all the way upstairs to my bed so briskly I barely have time to argue. Then she orders me to get in and comfy. I try to protest more, but she shushes me and sets a box of Kleenex on the bed. Funny that just a week ago she was making me get out of bed. “I’ll go get the ice cream. Be right back.”

She disappears, and I hear her bounding down the stairs and then quickly back up. She looks a bit dismayed as she hands me my ice cream. “Fair warning. I found Enoki licking off the top layer of your ice cream.”

“That sounds about right.” I smile, still crying.

“Should I scoop off the top?” Naomi offers.

“Naw. I probably already have his germs as much as he likes to lick my face in the morning.” This is ice cream we’re talking about. No use wasting it.

Naomi doesn’t judge, she just hands me my ice cream and then settles next to me on the bed with her own pint.

“I should warn you that he might have gotten yours first.”

At that she wrinkles her nose, gets up, and heads to the bathroom, presumably to wash the top layer down the sink. Sure enough, I hear the water running shortly. I’m laughing as she comes back in, and it feels good.

“Ah, that’s what I like to see.” She smiles back at me. “God bless the antics of cats.”

At the mention of cats, I suddenly think of Jorge as a jaguar sitting next to me, and my face falls again.

“Oh God, what did I say?” She almost drops her ice cream. That would have been tragic.

I sigh and start to tell her about last night. I hesitate to tell her about Jorge’s secret, but she’s my best friend and I trust her with my life, so I tell her that part at the end.

At first her blue eyes get bigger than life, then they slowly roll upward to give her a thoughtful expression. That’s Naomi. Cool as a cucumber in the face of all weirdness. She had a very similar reaction when she learned I could mindspeak with animals. Right now she’s probably wrapping her head around all the info and calculating what’s really wrong with me.

“So that’s why the cat comment made you so sad.” She’s good.

“Yeah. I just feel so stupid.” I groan, hanging my head and stuffing a few more bites of ice cream into my mouth.

“Why? You did nothing wrong. It sounds like this guy has emotional issues. So I say good riddance.”

I’d like to say that too, but in this moment my heart won’t let me.

Naomi must be reading my thoughts. “Oh, honey, it’s not that simple is it?”

I shake my head.

“Damn love at first sight. I knew you got it bad with this one.”

I look at her in surprise. “Do you think that is what this is?” I hadn’t thought of love at first sight as a possibility before, but it fits with what my heart is feeling. And despite my emotional distance from most living things, obviously my heart still believes in true love.

“I do. Pun intended.” We both laugh halfheartedly at her lame joke, but it’s better than crying again. She sighs. “I have to admit I have a hunch about you two.”

As much as I’d like to go with the hope swelling in my heart, real life is complicated. And Naomi’s hunches are only about 80 percent accurate.

“Well, fuck.” I stab the ice cream with my spoon.

Chapter Six

Naomi and I spend the day watching movies in bed and eating too much. It’s great. But there is still the matter of the dogs; I didn’t complete my mission the day before, and I can’t shake the one dog’s voice in my head. So after Naomi leaves, I re-don my dark outfit and head back to the farmhouse I’d started calling in my head the “evil one” versus the “to be avoided one.”

I again drive slowly with my lights off to park my car in the same spot. I completely ignore the “to be avoided” farmhouse and do
not
notice there is a light on in the living room.

Taking a deep breath, I leave my car and retrace my steps. Knowing there are cameras now, I stay hidden behind the barn when I open my mind and send a hello to the dogs.

“Hello.”
The answer is immediate from the same female dog.
“Are you OK? I was worried when you left so quickly.”

“Sorry. I got waylaid, but I’m fine. I learned it’s not safe for me to come closer to the house right now.”