In the aftermath of her twin sister's tragic death, Reagan Sinclair finds herself in a never-ending battle against paralyzing panic attacks and drowning in grief. Desperate to just survive each day, Reagan's world is turned upside down when Paris un...
Paris: Yeah, I just got in. What do you think about Alfredo pasta for dinner?
Reagan: Works for me. Can you come help me bring something up to the apartment?
Paris: Sure, no problem, just give me a second.
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"WHAT IS THAT THING?" I ask as Reagan steps out of her car in the underground garage below the building, cuddling something that looks a lot like an oversized rat.
"It's a cat," she says, holding it out towards me. It hisses, and she draws it back towards her chest, making comforting noises while the creature sends me a death glare.
"Amore mio, are you certain that's a cat?" it's hairless except for the sparse tuffs of fur near its ear and mouth, and it looks like it survived a bombing. Or an assassination attempt. It's the ugliness fucking cat I've ever laid my eyes on. She aims a dirty look my way, but I don't pay it any attention.
"You take that back, he's a sphynx and he's perfect. You're not allergic to cats, are you?" I reluctantly shake my head, staring at the cat that looks like it spawned from the underworld, his smell isn't winning him any points either.
"Good, then I'm keeping him," she tells me with all the seriousness of a judge reading out a life sentence. I fold my arms and rock back on my feet, so I can see the animal better and her spine straightens. She's about to fight tooth and nail to keep the stray currently glaring at me from its place in her arms.
"Where did you find it?"
"In a dumpster behind a Deli," well, that explains the smell.
"What if it has rabies?"
"He doesn't, but I'm taking him to the vet tomorrow. Hey Paris?"
"Yeah,"
"Can we do the Spanish Inquisition upstairs?" she asks, her voice soft and pleading. "I haven't eaten anything since breakfast, and I'm starving." There's a sly look on her face because she knows I hate it when she doesn't eat, and she's ready to employ every tool in her arsenal to keep the mole rat.
"What do you need me to bring upstairs?" I ask, unfolding my arms and conceding, for now. She points to the two bags in the back seat of her car. One has cat food, and the other has a medium-sized litter box. I lift the cat food onto my shoulders and grab the litter box with my other hand, following behind her to the elevator. We're quiet on the ride up, and the cat sends me glares over Reagan's shoulder. Probably thinking that I'm the only thing standing between him and a cozy new home. The only thing the mutt has going for him is his blue eyes.
She puts it down when we step into the apartment, and it saunters off in that aloof grace that could only belong to a cat. "You should go take a shower, I'll get started on dinner," I say, putting the cat food and the litter box on the kitchen counter and trying to put the image of her casually hugging a cat she found in a dumpster out of my mind. Whether it has rabies is still undetermined.
