“Your shift was over twenty minutes ago.”
I look up from refilling the bottles of condiments to where Jason is sticking his head out of the kitchen.
“I know,” I mumble. “I’m just finishing this up, then I’m out of here.”
“You off tomorrow?”
“Yeah, unless you guys need me to come in?”
My voice is a little too hopeful and Jason picks up on it.
“Jesus, Robin. You’ve been here almost every day for the past few weeks. Take a break. I’m sure you’ve got Christmas shopping and stuff to do as well.”
“I work Christmas, remember? I’ve got all I need.”
He rolls his eyes and I can just hear his mumble before he ducks back into the kitchen.
“Except a life.”
Isn’t that the truth?
Donna slips behind the counter and puts in an order with the kitchen before turning to me.
“He’s right you know.”
Great. I guess she heard. I quickly look over to see if Becca heard as well, but she’s talking to the family who just walked into the diner. I really don’t want her to be privy to this conversation.
I brace an arm on the counter and plant my other fist on my hip.
“About?”
“Don’t play coy. We’ve all see you mope around and that’s not like you. Go out, do something fun, get a dog, join the book club. Anything to get you out of this funk.”
Wow. I didn’t realize I’d been that obvious.
“Don’t hold back on my account,” I snap defensively, even though I know she’s right.
“I didn’t,” she says matter-of-factly. The straightforward mother of three boys shrugs. “Everybody’s been pussyfooting around since whatever started with that public lip-lock outside weeks ago ended shortly thereafter.”
She has to bring him up.
I heard from him, the Monday after Thanksgiving. A text message stating ‘We need to talk,’ and nothing since. Now I’d heard from Tank he’d been with Frank Hanson when he died, so I’d cut him some slack, but I promised myself I’d done all the chasing I would. So I waited until I saw him driving his old pickup truck past the diner last week, and it was clear that ‘need to talk’ was not that high on his list of priorities.
So I’m done. I’m consciously snuffing out that little spark of hope that after all these years there might be someone out there for me. My next step is to stop moping.
I pull my apron off and grab my purse from the drawer.
“I’m outta here.”
“Grab the garbage on your way out?” Donna holds up the bag and I take it from her hands. “Enjoy your day off,” she calls after me, and I lift a hand in response.
I’m in a foul mood.
Outside I duck into the dark alley beside the diner. The lid is heavy on the large bin, and I struggle to get it open. Swearing under my breath, I manage to lift it just enough to shove the bag inside.
A rustle sounds behind me and I swing around, letting the lid slam shut in the process. I squint and scan the alley. I don’t see a thing, but when I turn toward the street I hear what sounds like a faint whimper behind me. My eyes do another scan of the deep shadows, and this time I see the glint of a pair of eyes peeking out from the far side of the dumpster.
Meeow.
A cat—or rather, a kitten no bigger than my hand—comes out of hiding and carefully walks closer.
Meeow.
I go down on one knee and hold out my hand for her to sniff, which she does tentatively. I don’t really know if it’s a her, but she strikes me as one; dainty and petite. Big eyes in a tiny face, she looks like a tabby, predominantly gray with some black-brown markings.
“Hey, little one,” I coo, scratching behind her ear with a finger.
She leans her head into my touch but when I reach farther to pick her up, she suddenly darts past me. Straight for the curb.
I scramble to my feet and rush after her. Blind to the danger, she’s already running into the middle of the street when I notice headlights shining on her and she promptly sits down on her butt. Oh hell no. Dropping my purse I dive for her, both hands out. The loud honk of a horn startles the kitten and she suddenly moves but it’s too late; my fingers are already closing around her.
With her body pressed against me, and her little heart hammering out a staccato rhythm, I straighten up just as I hear a door slam.
“Do you have some kind of death wish or something?”
I don’t have to look to see who the harsh voice belongs to. My whole body recognizes it. Bottled up anger bubbles to the surface, but rather than have it out in the middle of the street in front of the diner, I turn on my heel, snatch up my purse, and stalk toward my SUV.
Somewhere along the line, the kitten started purring and I feel the vibrations where I hold her against my chest. Luckily I locate my keys easily and unlock my door, relieved when I hear his truck door slam again before I get behind the wheel. Guess he’s no more in the mood for a confrontation than I am.
The little fur ball curls on my lap when I try to fit the keys in the ignition, my hands trembling.
I half-expect the headlights of his truck to follow me home, and am surprised when I turn left but see him continuing north. I force down the disappointment that follows and focus on getting us home.
Us. It would appear I have a cat.
Not only have I become a grumpy reject, to add insult to injury, I’m officially a middle-aged cat lady. I’m also completely unprepared. I don’t have food, I don’t
