Page 49 of Crave

My phone began vibrating with Somewhere over the Rainbow, the Israel Kamakawiwoʻole version. Dallas. I padded over to the counter to peer at the screen. A rustle stopped me dead in my tracks.

No, not a rustle… a jingle.

She wouldn’t. But sure enough, two ghostly green eyes stared down at me from the uppermost branches of my Christmas tree.

Not good.

So not good.

Shifting back to human, I lunged for my phone.

Me: Situation Jingle Cat. How are your Jenga skills?

Thor: You do realize I went to culinary school?

Me: Think of this as a soufflé. With whiskers.

Thor: Be right over.

I opened a can of wet food, the irresistible siren’s call of cats everywhere. Godiva meowed mournfully. Ever seen videos where fields of snow-flocked spruce tremble during an earthquake? Picture that, but with dozens of delicate glass ornaments from Pier One toppling to the forest floor instead of icicles.

“Hey. Got your message.” Bounding into the room, Dallas took two seconds to survey the cat-ornament-landmine situation. “Okay. Yeah, this is bad. And why does it smell like Santa’s candy cane factory in here?”

I glared. “Because I can shift again, but my sense of smell is still off. And helpful much?”

“No, I mean, I was getting to that. I looked up cat-safe Christmas trees on the way over, and the internet said no tinsel—”

“And you’re just now conveying this important tip in feline-proofing?”

“Also, you should probably wrap the trunk in aluminum foil so she can’t climb.”

I bared my teeth. Growled.

“Right. So just like last time, you’re on oven mitts. I brought that fresh smoked chicken she likes. Plus the heavy-duty foil from The Spoke. Pretty sure between the two of us we can extract one four-pound kitten from a tree.”

“You realize we’re training her to misbehave for barbeque.”

Hearing her favorite word, Godiva meowed plaintively. The tree shook, a pair of red and green striped candy canes clacking together.

“We’ll get the hang of this eventually,” Dallas promised, creeping up on my Christmas tree from behind while I scrambled for the oven mitts. “One. Two—"

* * *

Mom: Going out with friends tonight. Are you working later?

Me: Sounds fun. Godiva and I are just having girls’ night.

I sent the picture Dallas captured of our crazy cat being extracted from an anaconda of tinsel by pink oven mitts and shut down my screen.

“That your mom?” Across a small table for two, Dallas lifted a water glass to his lips.

Dozens of tiny tea lights floated in recesses of the curved brick cellar room of The Clay Pit, an upscale Indian restaurant in Austin’s downtown district. Long white tablecloths set off the wrought-iron accents along the walls. With only four tables downstairs, the dark underground space felt cozy and intimate.

“Yeah, she’s—”

I hesitated, stomach flipping as warm amber candlelight played across Dallas’s dark blond hair. The crisp blue button-down he’d chosen made his eyes shimmer like pools of liquid twilight. Things felt perfect when we were together. A fantasy. A fairy tale. But like all stories, this one had to come to an end. My mother and Dallas couldn’t exist in the same world. And the longer I kept putting off the inevitable, the more it was going to hurt when I ultimately had to end things.

“She’s going out with friends. Brody didn’t give you a hint about who this contact is that we’re supposed to meet with?”