“What a piece of work is a man!…
In action how like an angel…”
—HAMLET, ACT 2, SCENE 2
Mick’s right.
I’m outgrowing Katie. He says it’s part of life—like a child outgrowing a pair of pants. “They were a fine pair of pants, but they don’t fit you anymore. They’re too small for the person you are becoming,” he said. Mick also says it takes courage to let some relationships go. Still, I miss Katie.
“How do I know you won’t outgrow me?” Almost as soon as the question was out of my mouth, I was sorry I’d asked it. I hate sounding insecure.
Mick didn’t seem to mind. “That could never happen, Joey,” he said (I got little shivers when he said that). Then he took my hands and pressed them to his chest, over his heart. “We’re soulmates, Joey. This is destiny.”
I love how that sounds. Soulmates. This is destiny. Still, I wish I knew whether Mick had that feeling with anyone else before me. Did he have it with Nial’s mother—the woman he cut out of the photograph? But I don’t ask. Maybe because I don’t really want to know the answer.
My shift at Scoops is nearly over. It’s a wonder people still want ice cream on such a wintery day. I’m looking out the window just as Mick’s Jeep pulls up at the corner. It’s snowing, and his windshield wipers are going double time. Phil looks up from the cash as I leave. “I’m glad you’ve got a ride. If you don’t mind my asking, who’s that guy who keeps coming to get you?”
“He’s just a friend.”
Phil drums his fingers on the counter. “From what I can tell, he looks a little old to be your friend.”
“He isn’t.” I hope that’ll shut Phil up, but it doesn’t.
“How come he never comes inside?”
“I don’t know. I’ll ask him. See ya, Phil.”
When I get in the Jeep and Mick kisses me hard on the lips, I forget Phil, the demanding customers, the after-dinner rush and the squishy sound my nurse’s shoes made all afternoon as I flew across the restaurant’s sticky floor.
“We’re making a quick stop.” Mick’s voice doesn’t give anything away.
“What for?”
Mick puts a finger to his lips. It’s another surprise! I smile—not just with my lips but inside too. Mick’s more fun than anyone I’ve ever known. He turns life into a game. It’s another thing I love about him. It’s also why I miss him so much when we’re apart. On weeknights, when I go back to Mom’s, everything there feels flat and dull. Like my world’s in black and white, not color, the way it is when I’m with Mick.
Mick pulls up in front of a stone townhouse on a pretty street tucked away behind the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts. “We’re going to stop in to see Marilyn—she’s a friend of Isobel’s. She has something for us.”
I reach for Mick’s hand as we trudge along the path to the house, but he won’t hold hands. That must mean Isobel’s friend isn’t supposed to know about us.
Before we can ring the bell, a tall woman with hair like gray straw opens the door. She doesn’t say a word, just takes our coats and gestures for us to follow her inside.
“Here they are,” she whispers. There’s a fire crackling in the fireplace in her living room. In front of the fireplace is a round wicker basket. Inside it is a sleek marmalade cat with three tiny kittens—one calico, two marmalade like their mom—curled around her. Two other kittens, just as small but black, come racing across the wooden floor, running sideways the way kittens do.
The sleeping kittens are rolled into fuzzy snail balls. One of the marmalade ones opens a yellow eye, looks right at me and yawns.
“I asked Iris here to come along and help me pick out a kitten,” Mick tells the straw-haired woman.
“Are we really getting a kitten?” I squeal, but then I correct myself. “Are you really getting a kitten, Mick?”
“I’m really getting a kitten.”
Marilyn puts her hands on her hips and looks at Mick. “It’s important to me that these kittens go to good homes. So I need to know what’ll happen to the kit if you go back to Australia. Isobel told me you’re from there.”
“Let’s just say at the moment there’s a lot keeping me here.” Mick doesn’t look at me when he says this—I know he can’t—but I know he means me, that I’m keeping him in Montreal. My heart swells with pleasure.
“How do you two know each other exactly?” Marilyn asks. For a moment, her eyes narrow like the marmalade cat’s.
“Iris is one of Isobel’s star students. I spotted her waiting at the bus stop. The snow was coming down pretty hard on the poor kid, so I offered her a ride.” Mick’s a much better liar than I am. Still, I don’t like him calling me a kid.
“Well then, Iris,” Mick says. “Which one do you like?”
The two black kittens are frisky and beautiful. The calico in the basket is purring like a small engine. But it’s the marmalade yawner I think I want. When I lean close to the basket, he stretches out one paw in my direction, as if he’s asking for my help.
“It looks like this little guy likes you,” Mick says. I feel bad for taking the kitten from his mom, but when I scoop him up, he doesn’t object. Instead, he settles into the crook of my arm and licks the inside of my elbow. His little pink tongue makes me laugh.
“I’ve got some kitten food to get you started. You’ll need to buy a litter box,” Marilyn says. “I’m glad to see him go to a good home.”
Marilyn watches from the doorway as Mick and I head back to the Jeep. I’m holding our new kitten inside my coat. Mick walks several feet ahead of us. He doesn’t notice when I nearly slip on an icy patch.
“Look out for yourself, Iris,” Marilyn calls out.
“What are you going to name him?” Mick asks when we’re back in the Jeep. The kitten is still curled up inside my coat.
“I haven’t decided yet.”
I wait in the car while Mick goes into the pet store. From the parking lot, I can look through the store windows. Mick is carrying a giant box of cat litter. His cheeks are rosy from the cold. When he sees me watching him, he waves a feathery cat toy at me. I’m careful not to laugh. I don’t want to wake the kitten.
He makes a little snoring sound. He’s our kitten. Mine and Mick’s. I promise myself that we’ll give this little guy a good home—a safe, calm place where he won’t be too lonely for the rest of his family.
That’s when I come up with his name. William Shakespeare. And I’ll ask Mick not to call him by a nickname the way he does with me.
He’ll be William Shakespeare because he’s smart and noble and by calling him that, he’ll always remind Mick and me of the day we met.
Someone’s tapping on the car window. The tapping wakes William Shakespeare. His little ears twitch back and forth. “It’s okay,” I tell him, “go back to sleep.”
The person doing the tapping is dressed in jogging gear. When he pulls up his navy balaclava, I see it’s Tommy. What’s he doing out in this weather?
“Iris,” he says when I roll down the window, “I thought it was you.” His eyelashes have snow on them. “Nice Jeep. Whose is it?”
“A friend’s.”
Now he notices William Shakespeare nestled inside my coat. One of the kitten’s eyes is closed; the other is on Tommy. “I didn’t know you had a cat,” Tommy says.
“We—I just got him. I better roll up the window now. I don’t want him getting cold. Be careful out there,” I tell Tommy. “It’s slippery.”
Tommy adjusts his balaclava before he jogs back out to the street. I watch as the reflective stripes on the back of his pants get farther and farther away.
A few minutes later, Mick opens the back door of the Jeep and tosses in the things he’s bought. He doesn’t mention Tommy. He must have been at the cash when Tommy stopped to talk to me.
“Meet William Shakespeare,” I tell Mick.
“It’s a good name,” he says. “Nice to meet you, Bill.”
“Not Bill,” I say in my firmest voice. I’m not used to standing up to Mick. “William Shakespeare.”
The streets are getting slushy, especially at the intersections. Mick speeds up to make it through a yellow light, and a wave of gray slush splashes into the air. I see Tommy on the sidewalk, jogging on the spot and shaking his head. Mick has just drenched him.
Mick doesn’t seem to notice what he’s done—and though I feel bad for Tommy, I figure it’s better not to mention it.
I pet the soft spot between William Shakespeare’s ears.
“If you keep cuddling up with that bloke,” Mick says, “you’re gonna make me jealous.”
I laugh. I also release my hold on William Shakespeare. He opens one eye as if to say, “Now why in the world would you do that?”