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“Hi, Brit. What a coincidence. I just finished scarring children, which I do periodically, and I sincerely do not know why the authorities still let me.”
“O-oh?”
She sweeps her cat down into her arms like a baby. “We should get dinner. There’s a sandwich shop just a few blocks down. I don’t like cars, so let’s walk.”
Her cat mews.
She looks down. “No, you aren’t invited. Are you okay to get home by yourself?”
Her cat melts, sheer despondency in its every boneless inch. I swear the creature’s eyes roll as its head lolls over her arm.
“I can bring you home a sandwich. I make no promises about your chips surviving. You know I can’t be trusted around potatoes.”
He slinks out of her arms, lands perfectly on the pavement, and offers me an upward nod before gliding off.
I blink at the retreating animal as it turns down a sidewalk. “Uh…your cat knows its way home? And…can go there on command?”
“Sure. Whether or not he manages the trip is another story, but it’s relatively cool today, and he’s eaten recently. So.” A slash of blush heats her pale cheeks as she touches a spot on her neck with her thumb. Shaking her head, she steps back. “Come on. Sandwiches.”
Sandwiches.
I ease myself and my purse out of my car and follow Willow’s white petticoats up the sidewalk, going the opposite direction her cat did. Compared to my ash-gray pantsuit, her dress, corset, and tights make me feel severely under-dressed. She’s like a floating cloud, and I’m a strained attempt at professionalism.
“Just coming back from work?” Willow asks, tossing a look over her shoulder.
“Yes.”
Her nose scrunches. “It’s past seven.”
“Overtime.” I shrug. “What can you do, right?”
She turns on her heel and walks backwards in front of me. “You can quit your job.”
“Not if I want to continue taking care of my puppy son.”
An amused sparkle claims her gray eyes framed with flecks of pearly white makeup. “Puppy son,” she echoes, insidiously. “How is your puppy son?”
“He’s doing well. I have about four thousand pictures of him, if you’d like to see.”
Without looking behind her, Willow swerves to avoid another pedestrian and grins. “Nothing would delight me more.”
¤
Shaking with muted laughter, Willow holds my phone and swipes through my collection of Oxford photos as we sit in the corner of a hole-in-the-wall deli with our dinners.
I munch on my salad and commend myself on how well this interaction is going so far.
No talk of Doliver.
No prying.
Just two friends, having dinner.
At least, I think we’re friends now. She said we were before, and the longer she doesn’t bring up Doliver, the more I’m hoping our friendship is independent of my relationship with him.
Does she know that he’s not talking to me anymore?
Would she know if I’m overreacting because this is normal for him?
