My Sweet Annie

49

Anabel had a dime-sized kitchen, made much smaller by the presence of four hungry cats.

"I'm so sorry, Tabitha," she said. She was watching me from a seat at the table in the dining nook next to the kitchen, her leg elevated on another chair with two throw pillows beneath it for good measure. She was gray-faced with exhaustion, her hair unbrushed. I wouldn't tell her, but she was a little loopy from the pain medicine, too, which was making her emotional. Even now, she looked as if she were ready to cry.

"You're not allergic, are you?" she asked. "I never asked you if you were allergic to cats."

"I am not allergic. I am, however, a prey animal." I eyed the cats with a playful grimace of apprehension. "Which cupboard is it?"

She smiled, pointing at the cupboard next to the stove.

It had a child lock on it. "Seriously?"

"Gladys can open cupboard doors."

I shook my head. "Of course she can."

A few minutes later, I had portioned out half-cups of kibble into dishes and arranged them strategically around the kitchen so the cats wouldn't slaughter one another. One dish was even on the counter. I was proud of myself.

"There. Everyone's fed. Just please don't tell me that Wencesclaws needs medication."

"God, no. I'd probably just let him go," Ana joked. "But you do have to pet Jeremy, or he won't eat."

I turned to regard the black cat on the counter, who was sitting next to his dish and looking at me expectantly. Bemused, I reached out to stroke his head, and he began to purr, immediately tucking in. "Well, then."

"I'm sorry," she said, her eyes suddenly shiny again.

"Anabel, what do we say about gracious, self-effacing fuckery?"

"What?"

"What do we say?"

Understanding dawned on her, and she laughed in surprise. "Nooo."

"Yep. Your own rules, right back at you. Ask for what you want, babe." The pet name rolled off my tongue without my conscious decision.

"Fine—I want a drink."

"I can do that. What do you want?"

"Tequila."

I snorted. "Not on hydrocodone, madam."

She gave me a dramatic pout, resting her head on her hand. "Hot chocolate?"

"Better."

A few minutes later, we were settled at the dining table together, both of us with mugs of instant hot cocoa in our hands. It was the first thing aside from mediocre coffee that I'd tasted in over twenty-four hours: oversweet, a little watery, and delicious. I had waited at the hospital with two of Anabel's brothers and her mother for her to get out of surgery. They had been so kind to me, Rosario plying me with granola bars I couldn't stomach and the guys taking turns fetching us all bitter hospital coffee. They had just welcomed me into their small knot of anxious waiting with hardly any questions, sharing news as the doctors updated them on Ana's condition.

It had been chaos at the scene, and I had been so worried about getting to Anabel that I could hardly think what to do with Porkie. Officer Sanchez—that poor, lucky guy—had put Porkie into his cruiser until something could be done, and through a chain of communications I hadn't bothered to try to understand, Ana's brother Michael had somehow gotten custody of the dog and taken her to his house for safe-keeping.