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He’s not my type.
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“Are you sure about this?”
Journi glanced at Josephine, ignoring the way her heart skipped a beat. “Obviously, I’m sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”
Josephine looked at her flatly. “Because we’ve been sitting in the car for fifteen minutes.”
Swallowing, Journi looked down at Horace, whom she’d allowed out of his pet carrier when Josephine had parked.
Fifteen minutes ago.
The cat hadn’t seemed at all impressed by its surroundings and had promptly curled up on Journi’s lap, its purr reverberating through her jeans. She’d asked Josephine to drive because, while she was used to facing the brisk November air on her scooter, Horace wasn’t. He wasn’t a long-haired cat, and the sweater she’d crocheted for him would only block so much wind.
The thought made her grimace, and she squeezed her eyes shut. “I crocheted a sweater for a cat. God, who am I?”
Josephine laughed. “Just someone who doesn’t hate cats as much as she thought she did.”
As Journi gazed at Horace’s velvety pink toe beans, she fought the insane urge to pull out her phone and snap a photo, and she knew Josephine was right. That didn’t mean Journi had to admit it. “No, I definitely hate him.”
“Of course.”
Journi sighed. When she’d brought Horace home three weeks ago, she’d been convinced her life would be a living hell from there on out. There would be dirty litter boxes and cat hair and shredded furniture. Not to mention the added expense. Who knew organic, grain-free cat food was so expensive? She still expected to see gold nuggets every time she opened a can. And the initial week had, indeed, been her worst nightmare. The first thing Horace had done upon exploring her apartment was take an enormous, steaming dump on her bed. It had gone downhill after that. Her favorite coffee mug had tragically lost its life when he’d disdainfully swatted it off the counter. It had taken her three trips to the store and an obscene amount of money to find a litter box he deemed worthy. And he’d decided the wee hours of the morning was the perfect time to sing the song of his people. A song that sounded an awful lot like an ailing cow in the throes of shapeshifting into a mountain goat. But then, without realizing it, she’d found herself scratching his chin while she read the morning paper. Sharing her popcorn with him during Netflix marathons. Wandering the pet supply aisles of every store she went in. Asking him what he thought of the weather and accepting his meow as a legitimate answer.
And letting him sleep by her feet at night. Under the blanket.
At some point, she’d accepted the cold, hard truth. That she, Journi McCutcheon, loved a cat.
And, down deep, below her newfound layer of squishy cat-lovery, she’d accepted another truth too.
That there was someone else who needed Horace far more than she did.
Even if the idea of letting him go was surprisingly painful.
She glanced across the street to Mr. Robertson’s house and sighed. He sat on the top step of his porch, elbows on his knees and hands steepled, his thumbs tapping each other anxiously. Though it had been almost a month since his wife had died as a result of Mr. Sniggles’ unwitting attack, Steve had a haggard look about him that said he still wasn’t sleeping well. His shirt looked like it hadn’t been washed recently, and his jaw was unshaven. Dark circles ringed his eyes, and he appeared gaunt, as if he’d lost weight.
The sight of him cemented Journi’s decision. His life had been destroyed. The man had lost not only his wife but also their beloved pet—something Journi was only just learning to appreciate. She’d later learned that they’d had no children, so he was alone in his grief. Frieda had showered him with daily casseroles and sympathies, of course. All of which he’d sullenly accepted before retreating into his den of misery. And he’d refused to entertain the idea of adopting another cat. In fact, he wouldn’t even step foot in the Hissing Booth.
That was when Frieda had called Journi.
Mr. Robertson might not be willing to adopt for his own benefit, but he might be willing to adopt for the cat’s benefit. And indeed he had been. When Freida had told him about how Horace came to be with Journi—a self-proclaimed hater of cats—he’d grudgingly agreed to the “rescue” after much encouraging. Journi had a feeling that, while he wouldn’t admit it, Mr. Robertson felt a kinship with the animal who had lost its only person too. Like Steve, Horace’s life was cleaved in half that night. Journi had been a way station. A place for him to weather the storm of change. To adjust to a life without Tilda. And as Journi gazed at Steve, she knew she was looking at the last stop on Horace’s journey. It was where he belonged. She knew because it felt right—a McCutcheon’s gut was never wrong—and because she’d soothed Horace’s future an hour ago.
He would make Steve smile again. It was going to take a lot of hard work on Horace’s part. There would be much purring and kneading involved. But, eventually, Mr. Robertson would wake up in the morning and look forward to the day. The sun would shine on his face and he’d enjoy its warmth. He would think of his wife and his chest wouldn’t feel like a hollow drum. And years from now, long after his hair had turned gray and his face weathered, and he’d buried Horace under the maple tree in the backyard, he’d find love again.
And all because he’d opened his heart to a cat whose poop had nearly unleashed hell on earth.
“Are you okay?” Josephine asked quietly, putting a hand on Journi’s shoulder.
Journi turned back and realized her eyes had filled with tears. So that’s why Mr. Robertson’s face had suddenly gotten blurry. “I’m fine,” she said, hurriedly smudging the salty escapees away with her thumbs. Clearing her throat, she reached for the door handle. “Let’s do this.”
Josephine stopped her, forcing Journi to meet her gaze. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. They both knew Josephine could feel exactly what Journi was feeling. “I’m going to go unload the trunk,” Josephine said, “Why don’t you take a minute?”
Journi swallowed her emotions but nodded.
Josephine smiled, squeezed her shoulder, then grabbed the keys and climbed out, closing the door behind her. As she went around to the rear of the car, Journi looked down at Horace.
“Hey, Asshole,” she murmured, her mouth curving. “You ready to go meet your new dad?”
Horace yawned, revealing a set of miniature lion teeth, and nuzzled his head into her hand.
“You’re going to love Steve,” she said, scratching under his chin. “I happen to know that he’ll keep you stocked in those crunchy dental treats you like. And I have it on good authority that he’ll buy you a deluxe cat tree for Christmas. But that’s between you and me, okay?”
The white cat meowed lazily as if to say he wasn’t making any promises.
Journi grinned. “You know I don’t like you, right?”
He stretched, offering her his belly.
She scratched it obediently. But only for exactly seven seconds. “I just want you to know that this doesn’t mean I’m, like, a cat person now. Because I’m not.”
He curled his toes in response, gazing at her with knowing eyes.
Sighing, she ran her fingertip down his nose and smiled. “Come on, big guy. It’s time for you to go home.”
Horace stood on her lap, arched his back in an unhurried stretch and then sat, staring at her. It was a deep, soulful stare, and she decided he was either conveying his heartfelt gratitude and affection, or he was merely observing her as a king might a lowly peasant. She couldn’t be sure which.
With one last scratch of his ears, she turned and retrieved the pet carrier from the back seat. After urging him inside and closing the door, she gathered her determination and got out. Chilly November air greeted her, and she breathed in the clean scent of late fall as she gazed at the Hissing Booth. Aside from a cracked window, the building looked as it had before the catpocalypse. Inside, she could see cats lounging in the windowsills, and there was a sign in the yard that read Thanksgiving Adoption Special—Calicos $40 Through November! The Halloween decorations were gone, but someone had lined the shelter’s steps with pumpkins and gourds, and a flag depicting a cat in pilgrim regalia fluttered in the breeze above the door.
“One thing’s for sure. You won’t be lacking for neighbors,” she told Horace as she headed down the sidewalk to Mr. Robertson’s house.
Josephine stood on the walkway, holding the box of Horace’s things and chatting with the grieving widower. At Journi’s approach, they looked over.
“Mr. Robertson,” Journi said by way of greeting.
Steve nodded at her, his haunted gaze drifting down to the pet carrier. “Afternoon.”
“Thanks for taking this thing off my hands,” she said, offering him Horace. “You might have heard that I hate cats.”
He hesitated and then accepted the carrier, clearing his throat. “I heard. What’s his name?”
“Horace,” she said. “But I just call him Asshole.”
Steve didn’t laugh, and from the corner of her eye, Journi saw Josephine purse her lips and put on her I-do-not-approve-this-message face.
“I told your aunt this is only temporary,” he said, looking through the wire door at Horace. The two stared at each other for a moment, and then Steve looked back at Journi. “I don’t want a new cat.”
“Understood. Frieda will let you know when she’s found a permanent home for him,” Journi lied, shoving her hands into her pockets. Exactly two days from now, Steve would call Frieda and let her know that he was officially adopting Horace.
Josephine set the box of supplies on the ground at the foot of the porch. “I’ll just leave these here.”
Steve glanced at the box, then down at the carrier, as if he were inviting an alien into his home, but he nodded. “Health records?”
“In the box,” Journi said. A few days after she’d brought Horace home, Dr. Daniel had requested faxes of his history from the Burkes’ veterinarian before doing a full physical, including bloodwork and x-rays to rule out any aftereffects of the curse. Aside from being a general pain in the ass, Horace was healthy.
With a tired sigh, Steve dragged his hand down his stubbled chin. “Okay. Well, thanks for bringing him.”
Josephine smiled. “It was nice meeting you.” To Journi, she added, “I’ll be in the car.”
Journi watched her go and then glanced back at Steve. “I’m really sorry about your wife,” she said. “And your cat. If there had been any other choice, I would have made it.”
Steve gazed down the street with red-rimmed eyes. He was quiet for a while. “You did what you had to do. Sniggles wasn’t . . . himself.”
Journi stood with him in silence for a moment, sharing his sorrow, and then she looked at Horace. The cat looked back as if he understood far more than Journi thought he did, and she smiled. Then, without another word, she turned and left. As she did, she felt something in her pocket and paused. Pulling it out, she discovered it was Horace’s collar. She’d bought the thing for him shortly after his arrival. It was black and studded with silver spikes, and a tiny silver skull dangled from its clasp. When had she taken it off him? Turning, she opened her mouth to tell Mr. Robertson to wait, but she closed it when she saw him sitting on the top step once more, staring out at nothing. Only, this time, he wasn’t alone. The pet carrier was on his lap, and his arms were wrapped around it tighter than he probably even realized. He wasn’t smiling. Not yet. But he would.
She wrapped the collar around her wrist and fastened it. It fit right in with her black-leather cuff and skull-and-crossbones bracelet. She stared at the collar a moment and then walked away with a faint smile.
“Hey,” someone called just as she reached the car. “Hold on.”
Looking over, she saw Dr. Daniel jogging down the shelter’s steps, his gray medical bag bouncing against his hip. He wore an unbuttoned white lab coat over a pair of green scrubs, and she tried not to notice how he filled out the thin material. And where he filled it out.
She leaned against the car and crossed her arms over her chest as if she wasn’t at all impressed by him. Which, of course, she wasn’t. “Hey.”
Aside from Horace’s workup, she’d done her best to avoid the veterinarian since Halloween, but he had an annoying habit of running into her. Which wasn’t at all awkward considering he’d never followed through on his alleged plan to ask her on a date. Not that she’d wanted him to. She had no interest in dating. And even if she did, it wouldn’t be with a man who had feline tendencies. She still had some dignity, after all.
He glanced over at Steve’s house. “Dropping off Horace?”
“Yeah,” she said, following his gaze. “Good riddance.”
Daniel grinned, the twinkle in his eye saying he didn’t buy the act any more than she did. “The Robertson’s have vetted with me since they adopted Mr. Sniggles. When he brings Horace in for his yearly, I’ll let you know how he’s doing.”
She shrugged as if her heart didn’t leap at the idea. “No need.”
Chuckling, he said, “Right.” Opening his medical bag, he pulled out a slender black box. “Hey, I got you something.”
She arched an eyebrow. “For what?”
“Just an apology,” he said, passing the box to her. “It’s nothing big. I didn’t have a chance to wrap it yet.”
She accepted the box, staring at it. “You don’t have to apologize. I told you that. We all did.”
His grin faded, and a shadow passed over his face. So quickly she would have missed it had she not been watching him closely. “No, I do have to.”
She sighed but couldn’t deny a tingle of curiosity over what was in the box. “If you say so,” she said, opening the lid.
“No,” he said, halting her by touching her wrist. His fingertips lingered a moment longer than necessary and then he pulled back. “Open it later.”
She stared at him. “It’s a bomb, isn’t it?”
He threw back his head and laughed. “I like you, Journi McCutcheon. You’re a real glass-half-full kind of girl.”
She allowed herself a laugh of her own and held up the unopened box. “Thanks.”
Still grinning, he gestured toward the shelter with his chin. “Going to adopt a cat of your own now?”
“God no,” she said with exaggerated distaste. “One was enough.”
“You know what they say,” he countered. “Once you go cat . . .”
“You get a dog?” she supplied.
He laughed again. “Not exactly.”
She studied him. Aside from the underlying buzz of supernatural energy that seemed to emanate from him, he appeared wholly human. But she’d seen him sprout fur and fangs. She was personally acquainted with the snarling, hissing beast lurking beneath his skin. “Speaking of cats,” she began. “Are you . . .” Her voice trailed off as she realized she didn’t know what to ask. Or if it was politically correct. Or why it mattered at all. She didn’t care if he was secretly a three-legged hairless unicorn. Theirs was a strictly professional relationship, and she didn’t need to fondle the skeletons in his closet to maintain it. “Never mind.”
He opened his mouth as if to answer anyway, but Aunt Frieda approached, interrupting him. “Thought you had appointments, Dr. Anders,” she commented with a sly grin and then drew on her cigarette. “Get sidetracked, did you?”
The veterinarian chuckled, giving Frieda a smile. “No, ma’am. I was just leaving.”
Frieda blew out a plume of smoke, her eyes twinkling. “Let me know when you want to plan the Neuter Palooza.”
He nodded. “I’ll look at my calendar.” Then, glancing at Journi, he added, “Miss McCutcheon.”
“Doctor Daniel,” she replied.
He grinned, waved at Josephine in the car, then walked off.
“Hate to see him go, but I sure do love to watch him leave,” Frieda said, gazing after him.
“Good God, Aunt Frieda,” Journi said. “Maybe you ought to offer him some candy from your van next time.”
The elder woman laughed, flicking her cigarette’s ashes. “I may be old, girl, but I ain’t dead. That man is fine.”
“Between you and Gramma Jude, no man in this city is safe.”
Frieda considered it and then raised an I-won’t-lie eyebrow. “In our day.”
Journi smiled, imagining younger versions of her grandma and aunt. No doubt they’d been hell-raising heathens and loved every second of it. “How have I ever avoided needing therapy?”
“The day is young,” Frieda said, her grin wicked.
Wicked and tired.
Despite the woman’s amusement, there was a weariness about her that Journi hadn’t seen before. Frieda’s rich, brown eyes were duller. Her wrinkles deeper. And her presence somehow . . . frailer. Since the Rise, medicine had made leaps and bounds. Doctors no longer had to rely on science alone. Magic had revealed a plethora of new and wondrous cures. Meaning folks lived a helluva lot longer than they used to. Frieda was a spry sixty-seven. If not a spring chicken, then at least a summer one. Which was why the subtle tiredness clinging to her gave Journi pause.
“You feeling okay?” she asked. People might have longer lifespans these days, but that didn’t mean being knocked around like Frieda had during the catpocalypse was easy on them. Even Journi still felt stiff and creaky in several places, and she was a few decades younger than Frieda.
Frieda seemed caught off guard by the question and busied herself with dusting stray ashes off her sleeve. “Fit as a fiddle,” she said. “Been bottle feeding a litter of orphaned newborn kittens.” As if on cue, a yawn escaped her, and she covered it with her hand. “Every two hours.”
Journi tried to imagine getting up every two hours in the middle of the night to feed God only knew how many squalling kittens. She cringed. “Damn.”
“Yeah,” Frieda confirmed. “Once they’re out of the woods, I’ll let Lacy take over. She needs the nursing experience.”
“She needs a sedative,” Journi said dryly, recalling the chipper, bubbly volunteer. The girl was a walking toothache.
Frieda chuckled. “That too.”
Holding up the box, Journi asked, “So what did he give you?”
The elder woman frowned, studying the black box through her cigarette’s smoke. “Who?”
Journi arched a hellloooo eyebrow. “The good doctor.”
Frieda arched a brow of her own and then grinned. “That’s all you, babe.”
Journi stared at her. “You’re kidding.”
Shrugging, Frieda did nothing to hide her delight as she drew on her cigarette.
Uncharacteristic warmth filled Journi’s cheeks, and she shoved the box into the inside pocket of her leather jacket. “Don’t say a word. Not one word.”
She wasn’t miffed that Daniel hadn’t asked her out. She wasn’t. They were on opposite ends of the dating spectrum. He wasn’t her type, and she certainly wasn’t his. Dimple-smiled, clean-cut doctors didn’t usually go for moody, dagger-eyed goth girls. Perhaps it had been adrenaline behind his apparent interest that night. Or guilt. Or exhaustion-induced delirium. Either way, it would never have worked. And the fact that he’d given only Journi a gift didn’t mean anything. After all, he had actively tried to kill her, whereas he’d only deflected Josephine’s and Frieda’s attacks. It was an apology and nothing more.
With her cigarette hand, Aunt Frieda made a zipping motion across her mouth, but the sparkle in her eye said she’d be on the phone with Gramma Jude as soon as Journi left. “My lips are sealed.”
Groaning, Journi turned to go. “I need a family replacement.”
“Wait,” Frieda said, reaching into her own pocket. “I have something for you too.”
Journi turned back. “What is with you people?”
Laughing quietly, Frieda handed her what turned out to be a necklace. “Here.”
Journi accepted it, letting the tarnished silver chain coil in her palm. The pendant, a scuffed dome of glass partially encased in silver held . . . an eyeball.
Like, a real one.
Journi was all about gothic, unconventional jewelry, but even she had to draw the line somewhere. She looked at Frieda. “Did you just give me a cat’s eyeball?”
Frieda’s mouth quirked around her cigarette and she nodded. “I did.”
Holding up the orb, Journi stared into the elliptical pupil, which stared back at her from a perfectly preserved ice-blue iris. “Thanks?”
As if enjoying her skepticism, Frieda crossed one arm over her chest and nursed her cigarette. “That eye has been with me for half a century. Belonged to my first spirit animal.”
Journi made a face. “I’m not sure that makes it less creepy.”
“Poppycock,” Frieda said, waving her hand. “I want you to have it.”
Holding it as one might a—well, an eyeball necklace—Journi said, “Again, thanks?”
Frieda cut her a look. “Just take it.”
Having received odder gifts from her family, Journi shrugged and obeyed, putting on the necklace. The pendant settled on her chest, the silver cool and weighty, and a tingle of magic danced across her skin. It was a strange magic and one she couldn’t remember ever feeling before. Considering the multitude of magics she encountered every day, that was saying something. “Doesn’t it have, I don’t know, sentimental value to you or something?”
Exhaling, Frieda gazed at her through the smoke. “Sure it does. Also has magical value. It’ll help you.”
Journi brought her fingertips to the pendant, looking down at it. Gave a whole new meaning to I’ve got my eye on you. “Help me how?”
Frieda shrugged. “Don’t know.”
“How very illuminating.”
Frieda’s mouth curved, and she eyed the pendant as if satisfied to see it around Journi’s neck. “It’s always guided me. Helped me save a lot of cats’ lives. Not sure what it’ll do for you, but it’ll recognize you as family.”
Journi studied her aunt. The elder black woman had been a cornerstone of their tribe for as long as Journi could remember, but she didn’t have McCutcheon blood running through her veins. “How?”
“Because I do,” Frieda said simply.
Journi smiled, honored by the gift despite its peculiarity. While Frieda wasn’t a witch like Gramma Jude, she was more connected to the netherworld than your average human, and bonds with spirit animals ran deep. The pendant undoubtedly meant a lot to Frieda. That she’d given it to Journi meant a lot in return. “Thank you.”
Frieda inclined her head and flicked her cigarette’s ashes. “You’re welcome.”
“You sure you want to part with it?”
“Yeah.” Frieda smiled faintly as she gazed down the street. “I’m sure.”
“Okay,” Journi said and then straightened the collar of her leather jacket, her expression perplexed. “Did everyone wake up this morning with the burning desire to shower me with gifts or what?”
Laughing, Frieda hugged her cat-printed fleece pullover around herself. “Can’t have anything to do with your charming personality.” She glanced at her watch. A real watch too. Not a translucent data display. Journi wasn’t the only one in her family who clung to outdated technology. “I need to get back inside. ’Bout time to feed those babes again.”
Journi nodded and turned with a sigh. “Yeah, I have a client to meet myself. Wants to know if his new wife will cheat on him.”
Frieda made a face. “The foundation of any solid marriage.”
“Apparently,” Journi agreed, shaking her head. As she opened the car door, she reminded Frieda, “I’ll be expecting that ambrosia tomorrow night.”
“I’ll think about it,” Frieda called as she started up the walk, a smile in her voice.
Journi smiled too and started to climb in the car when her phone vibrated. Pausing, she pulled it out and saw a message from Miguel. A swipe of the screen revealed a photo. It was of Miguel, and he looked as flamboyant as ever even though his right arm was in a cast. But it wasn’t his jazz hands or silver-lamé hot pants that drew a laugh from her. It was the faux furry cat ears he wore. And his T-shirt.
Cropped and fringed, it read I survived the catpocalypse and all I got was this lousy T-shirt.
There was a text below the photo.
CELEBRATION TONIGHT. 8 P.M. BYOBB. (BRING YOUR OWN BOYS, BITCH.)
Chuckling, Journi shook her head and got in, repocketing the phone. Closing the door behind her, she put on her sunglasses and looked at Josephine. “Let’s blow this popsicle stand.”
Josephine worked one last stitch with her knitting needles, the lavender yarn flying swiftly over her fingers, then she carefully gathered the project and returned it to a quilted bag on the console between them. “I don’t know what that means, but coming from you, it’s almost certainly perverse.”
Journi eyed the knitting. “What don’t you bring with you when you leave the house?”
Josephine paused to think about it. “My sense of humor.”
Buckling her seatbelt, Journi smirked and said, “I didn’t realize you had one of those to begin with.”
Josephine turned the key and gave her an arch look. “I didn’t tell you about that booger, did I?”
Icy fear shot through Journi, and her eyes widened as she hurriedly yanked down the passenger’s sun visor to look in the mirror. After inspecting her nostrils and finding them blessedly booger-free, she groaned and slapped shut the visor. “That was cold.”
Laughing, Josephine pulled away from the curb. “Thought you didn’t care what Dr. Anders thought of you?”
“I don’t,” Journi said, rubbing her nose for good measure. “It’s Aunt Frieda I’m worried about. She’d never let me live a booger down.”
“Right,” Josephine said, her glee palpable. “To the office?”
Journi studiously ignored the warmth in her cheeks and nodded. “Yes, driver.”
Stopping at the intersection, Josephine watched a unicorn trot across the street, its pearly coat shimmering with pink in the afternoon sun. “What are you making tomorrow night?”
Journi retrieved her phone from her satchel and checked for any new voicemails. “I’ll probably get some chips.”
Josephine scowled at her. “It’s Thanksgiving. You can’t just bring chips.”
“Why can’t I?” Journi looked at her. “Everyone on the planet likes chips.”
“That’s not the point,” Josephine said. “It’s a holiday.”
“And?”
Josephine’s mouth flattened. “And holidays call for a little extra effort, Journi Renee.”
Saving the world apparently didn’t qualify as extra effort these days. “Fine, I’ll bring dip too.”
Looking toward the heavens as if praying for patience, Josephine sighed. “It’s like you were raised by savages.”
Journi grinned. “You said it.”
“I’m sure Dr. Anders will be overwhelmed by your offering of chips and dip.”
Journi’s grin evaporated, and she stared at her mother. “What?”
It was Josephine’s turn to look smug. “Your aunt invited him to dinner.”
“She did not.”
“Of course she did. Why wouldn’t she? He’s a nice young man.”
Journi gave her an are-you-crazy look. “Have you met our family?”
Having Aunt Frieda and Gramma Jude in the same room together was bad enough, but toss in a menagerie of loud, magically unstable relatives with questionable sanity, and you had a full-on freak show.
Josephine had never looked more satisfied. “Is that really what’s bothering you?”
“Obviously.”
Josephine laughed. “Sure.”
Crossing her arms over her chest, Journi said, “I’m not interested in him. Get that out of your bob right now.”
Josephine primped her poker-straight blonde bob as if to make sure the idea was still tucked securely inside. “I never said you were, dear.”
“He’s not my type.”
“I never said he was, dear.”
Journi gazed out at the passing street, fingering the pendant, its worn glass surface smooth under her fingers. “I’m happily single, you know.”
“Of course, dear.”
“Aunt Frieda gave me a cat’s eyeball.”
There was a pause. “Excuse me?”
Journi glanced at her mother, holding out the chain so she could see the dangling pendant. “Yeah.”
Josephine studied the necklace, her gaze unreadable. She turned her attention back to the road. “When?”
“Just a few minutes ago. Why? Is this thing going to sprout a cat when the clock strikes twelve or something?”
Laughing, Josephine rolled her eyes. “Don’t be a gumball. I was just curious.”
Journi let go of the pendant with a sigh, shaking her head. “We really need to work on your insults.”
“Not everyone needs to curse like a sailor to get their point across.”
“Not everyone needs an ironing board, either, but we all have our vices.”
Pursing her lips, Josephine waved her off as they pulled up to the curb in front of Say It Ain’t So. She parked behind Journi’s Rebel. “Hogwash.”
Journi grinned. It dissolved when she spied the short, balding man standing in front of the office door, nervously looking around as if he expected his new bride to be hiding in the bushes. “Balls,” she muttered. “He’s early.”
Josephine put the car in park, gazing at the man with mild amusement. “And petrified.”
Closing her eyes, Journi leaned her head back against the headrest and groaned. “Please let his wife be faithful. I can’t deal with a sobbing, prematurely balding, mustached man today.”
“Don’t be so dramatic,” Josephine chuckled. “What is that?”
Journi opened her eyes and saw Josephine peering at the black box peeking out of Journi’s jacket pocket.
“Nothing,” Journi said, pulling her jacket closed.
Josephine’s eyes widened as she stared at her. Then her mouth curved. “Then why did you just send out a puff of embarrassment.”
Offended, Journi glared at her. “I did not puff embarrassment. God, Mother. You make it sound like I farted it.”
Josephine shrugged. “You puffed.”
“I didn’t puff.”
“What’s in the box, Journi?”
They held each other’s stares a long, stubborn moment, and then Journi sighed, pulling the box out of her jacket. “It’s from Dr. Daniel.”
Josephine’s eyes lit up. “You mean Dr. Anders?”
Journi scowled. “Whatever.”
“Well, what is it?”
“I have no idea,” Journi said. “I haven’t opened it.”
Josephine stared at her.
“Oh, for the love of dog knots,” Journi said, pulling off the lid. “Happy now?”
When Josephine’s eyebrows rose as she stared at the box’s contents, Journi looked down.
And laughed.
She laughed so hard her shoulder shook. In fact, she damn near cackled, the sound erupting in the quiet confines of the sedan.
Inside the box, resting on a tuft of black velvet, was a bumper sticker sized perfectly to fit on the rump of her scooter. The sparkly purple vinyl somehow managed to look punk, and it consisted of a cutout of three joined words.
Crazy.
Cat.
Lady.
The End
Purr Now
(Hey, you. Yeah, you. Where are you going? Flip that page. There’s more . . .)
