In New York City, that’s practically free.
To be fair, Kendall doesn’t know just how strained my finances are. My student loans are not something I like to talk about. As far as she’s concerned, I live in a basement studio in Brooklyn and clip coupons because I just like to save money. She herself is not exactly pulling in millions—being an assistant to an up-and-coming fashion designer doesn’t pay much more than my bookstore job and editing gigs—but her parents cover most of her bills, so all her salary gets spent on clothes and various luxuries.
If she weren’t such a good friend, I’d hate her.
As I enter the subway station, I almost trip over a homeless man lounging on the stairs. “Sorry,” I mutter, about to scurry away, but he gives me a toothless grin and extends a brown bag toward me.
“It’s okay, little lady,” he slurs. “Want a sip? Seems like you could use a drink.”
Startled, I step back. “No, thanks. I’m okay.” How awful do I look if homeless people offer me alcohol? Maybe there is something to Kendall’s cat-lady diagnosis.
Shrugging, the man takes a swig from the brown bag, and I dash down the stairs before he offers to share something else with me—like the coins in the hat next to him.
I’m strapped for cash, but I’m not that desperate.
* * *
One long train ride later, I come out of the subway in Bay Ridge, my neighborhood in Brooklyn. The second I step outside, a gust of wind hits me in the face.
A gust of wind and something wet.
Sleeting snow.
Great. Just great. Gritting my teeth, I clutch the lapels of my old woolen coat, trying to keep the two edges from separating at my neck, and start walking. I don’t live that far from the subway—only five blocks—but they’re long blocks, and I curse every one of them as the icy rain intensifies.
“Watch it,” a heavyset woman snaps as I bump into her, and I automatically mumble an apology. It’s not entirely my fault—it takes two people to bump into one another—but it’s not in my nature to be rude.
My grandparents raised me better than that.
When I finally reach the brownstone where I’m renting my basement studio, I feel like I’ve scaled Mount Everest. My face is wet and frozen, and despite my best efforts to keep my coat closed, the sleet got inside, chilling me from within. I’m one of those people who has to have the top half of her body warm. I can tolerate icy feet—I have those too, since my sneakers are not waterproof—but I can’t bear to have cold water trickling down my neck.
If I’d been mad at Mr. Puffs for tearing up my only decent-looking scarf before, it’s nothing compared to how I feel now. That cat is going to get it.
“Puffs!” I roar, pushing the door open and stepping into my one-room apartment. “Come here, you evil creature!”
The cat is nowhere to be seen. Instead, Queen Elizabeth gives me a placid stare from my bed and licks her paw, then starts grooming herself, smoothing each fluffy white hair into place. Cottonball is next to her, napping on my pillow. Both felines look warm, content, and utterly carefree, and not for the first time, I feel a pang of irrational envy toward my pets.
I’d love to sleep all day and have someone feed me.
Shivering, I take off my wet coat, hang it up on the hook by the door, and toe off my sneakers. Then I go in search of Mr. Puffs.
I find him in his new favorite place: the top shelf of my closet. It’s where I keep hats, gloves, scarves, and bags—not that I own many of each item, which is why it’s a tragedy of epic proportions when the evil cat decides to shred one of them to make room for his furry body.
“Puffs, come here.” I’m not exactly tall, so I have to stretch up on tiptoes to grab him. Grunting from the effort, I take him down from the shelf. The cat weighs a solid fifteen pounds, and with his paws windmilling in the air, he feels twice as heavy. “I told you you’re not allowed to sit there.”
I set him down on the floor, and he gives me a squinty-eyed stare that says it’s only a matter of time before he gets the rest of my accessories. Like his siblings, Mr. Puffs is white and fluffy, the perfect embodiment of his Persian breed, but that’s where the similarity ends. There’s nothing calm and placid about him. I’m not sure the cat sleeps. Ever. It’s possible he’s a vampire who shapeshifts into a huge Persian for daytime.
He’s certainly evil enough for that.
Just when I’m about to yell at him again for tearing up the scarf, he rubs his head on my wet jeans and emits a loud purr. Then he looks up at me, big green eyes blinking innocently.