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“Do you think he wants food?” I ask.
“Already fed him. No way he wants food.” Jesse turns to the cat. “Hey, we can’t give you food. That’s too much food for one cat. You’re already starting to gain weight.”
“Did you just… fat shame a cat?”
“I would never,” Jesse says. “But I can’t get him into a carrier without getting viciously scratched in the event we do need to take him to a vet for gastrointestinal issues.”
“So sexy. Gastrointestinal. Oooh.”
“And they say I’m the immature one,” Jesse says, glancing off to one side like he’s looking into an invisible camera and he’s the star of a sitcom.
“Jesse. The cat.”
He slips off the bed and crouches down, holding out a hand to Mr. Skitters.
“Here,” he says. “Take affection instead.”
But Mr. Skitters merely considers him.
“Can you get me a treat?” Jesse asks. “They’re in the kitchen underneath the sink.”
“Sure, no problem.”
I grab one from the bag and return it to Jesse.
He takes it and holds it out in the flat of his hand. Mr. Skitters comes closer, closer, and then, he crunches the treat over Jesse’s palm. The way his face lights up is priceless. I grab the cameraoff the tripod at the end of the bed and snap a photo of his excitement, capturing the moment Mr. Skitters finally trusted him.
It feels like a sign. It feels like tomorrow’s going to be a good day.
Thirty-Four
JESSE
I am shitting cow-sized bricks.Not literally, but holy fuck, I’m nervous.
It’s the day of my first political rally, and there are actual camera crews for local news stations in the park. The stage has been set up, and I’m one of a few people who are going to talk today. We’re not exactly presidential fucking candidates, so it’s not like we can afford to host rallies by ourselves.
I pace back and forth behind the divider that separates me from the people out there, sitting or standing in the park.
The last time we were here, it was for the department picnic, and that went to shit real quick.
And after this rally, there’s a mayoral dinner with the candidates this weekend. If I can’t handle this, how the fuck am I going to handle that?
“Jesse, it’s going to be fine,” Marci says. “You’re fine.”
But I’m not fine. I’m not fine at all. I’m sweating, and I’m wearing a suit, which is not a thing for me, and I cut myself shaving this morning.
Marci grabs hold of my hands and turns me toward her. “Look at me, Jesse.”
I find her face.My beautiful wife.And the nerves fade. “Angel?”
“You’re good,” she says. “I’m right here with you. I’ll be standing in the crowd. Just talk to me. That’s all. Talk to me and pretend it’s us two alone in your bedroom.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I say. “Getting a boner on stage would probably fall into line with my fuck boy image.”
“Funny.”
I capture her lips in a kiss, pushing my fingers into her hair and holding her to me. It helps calm me down. She’s here and she’s real, and she thinks I can do it.
