“I can’t believe you’re leaving, you jerk,” Cat sputtered as she huffed and continued to sort through her parents’ clothes.
Her brother’s shoulders sank as he let his head fall below them. “I know you’re having a hard time. I am too. I just need a few hours, and I’ll be back. Cut me some slack, Cat. This is the only way I know how to deal. Surely you get that.”
Cat rolled her eyes. “Whatever, Anthony.”
She picked up a crimson garment and pressed it to her face. A full year had passed, and her mother’s scent still lingered on the fabric. Her brother crossed their parents’ long-vacated bedroom and gave her shoulders a squeeze.
“It’ll get easier,” he offered.
“I know.” Cat blinked back her tears and punched him playfully in an effort to diffuse her emotions. Even in front of her own brother, she hated letting her deeply rooted pain show itself. She had promised her mother she'd be brave and strong, no matter what, and in Cat's mind, that meant not letting the crippling sadness that permeated her entire being get the best of her.
Anthony chuckled as he dodged her wimpy swats.
“Now, give me your keys.”
She grunted as she flipped the keychain at his chest. “When are you going to get your own car, loser?”
“Why would I get one when I can just use yours?” His cackling drifted down the hallway toward the front door.
“Anthony!” she called.
“What?”
She sighed. “Just be careful on the trails. I heard the mountain got snow last night, and I can’t handle you dying on the same day Mom and Dad did.”
“You’re so morbid, baby sister.”
The door clicked shut as he let himself out.
“Well, after all this, can you blame me?”
* * * *
Bang-bang-bang-bang!
Cat was shaken out of her dream and jumped off the couch, wondering why Anthony didn’t just unlock the door and let himself in.
“If you lost my keys again, you’re dead, big brother,” she called through the door as she flung it open.
She found herself face to face with a somber-looking police officer, who clutched his hat at his waist.
“Catarina Bellafiore?” he asked, butchering the Italian of her name.
She hesitated in the midst of steadily growing trepidation. “Yes?”
“Are you the owner of a green nineteen ninety-eight Honda Civic, license plate 721-GHZ?”
“Y-yes?”
“I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
* * * *
Cat leaned into the back of the moving truck and gripped the sides of a box, struggling to slide it toward her sweaty chest. Her tank top clung damply to her skin. Late April in New York was surprisingly warm, but she didn’t mind. The sunshine and clear skies were a nice change from gray, dreary Seattle where she’d left the pieces of her shattered life.
She grabbed a smaller box, balanced it on top of the heavier one, and hoisted both out of the truck as she stepped backward onto the curb. The weight of the two boxes combined pushed the limits of Cat's strength, and a frustrated lump started to rise in her throat as she silently cursed her stronger big brother for being dead, instead of there to help her move.
Cat started to turn around when she slammed into something hard. The impact caused the larger box to slip from her hands, but it stopped in mid-air just before hitting the sidewalk. Four distinctly masculine fingers appeared from out of nowhere, wrapped around the bottom corner of the box.
Cat peered up to find a pair of blue eyes peeking over the top of the brown cardboard at her. She had seen that shade of cornflower blue a million times before. Every time she saw her own reflection, to be specific.
The stranger held a phone to his ear with his shoulder and lifted his chin above the box to flash a grin reminiscent of a toothpaste advertisement. He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound accompanied the word.
Sorry.
Cat shook her head a little. “My fault.”
She started to lift the box away from him, but it wouldn’t give. She glanced back at him quizzically. He flipped his dark eyebrows in the direction of the apartment building and offered another silent phrase.
Which unit?
Cat was hesitant to tell the man where she would be living, but he seemed to be in a hurry. He effortlessly held the heavy box, so she figured it wouldn’t hurt anything and was silently grateful for the help.
She pulled the door open and waved him in. As the two made their way up the rickety staircase, she couldn’t avoid overhearing his phone call.
“I don’t know, Richie. It sounds like a horribly tacky interpretation,” the man grumbled. “Billy Shakespeare is gonna be rolling in his grave.”
His voice paused for a moment as he listened to the response.
“I guess that’s true,” he replied listlessly.
Cat swung open the door to her unit and stepped aside as the man set the box down and stood upright, allowing her a full view of him for the first time.
The stranger appeared to be in his mid-twenties, with dark hair and perfect skin. He towered a few inches above Cat's head, with broad shoulders and biceps that slightly stretched the sleeves of his white T-shirt. He had a strikingly handsome, all-American-guy look to him.
He was probably the most attractive man Cat had ever seen in real life and seemed as if he could've been a model. She found herself to be somewhat hard-pressed not to stare.
Apparently, he was too, and they stood motionless for a while with blue eyes locked on blue eyes.
Say something, you dolt! Cat's inner monologue screeched at her.
After what felt like a couple of very awkward seconds, she finally managed to throw together a few words.
“Um…thank you."
He gave her a friendly smile and a polite nod. He lingered for a second longer as if he thought about speaking to her, and then made a face at whatever had been said by the person on the other end of the phone. Whatever he’d heard seemed to be of some kind of importance, so he offered a small wave, and then disappeared down the hall.
Cat found herself in a subtle trance as she watched him leave.
Wow. I guess the weather isn’t the only pretty thing in New York.