Page 23 of Kitten

“What does Lou know?” James’s voice was light but firm. “You don’t owe me anything, you know.”

“I just want to do something nice,” I said. “I’ve never done anything nice for you.”

“I’m really happy to get them myself.”

“No, I want to.”

“I can go with you.”

“Shut up, James, just let me buy you the turnovers.” I sat up. Silver tumbled off my chest with a squeal. I cleared my throat. “I’m going,” I said, then kissed Silver’s head, in case she was upset with me.Go already,she said,before you change your mind.

“Hey,” James said as I climbed out of bed. He pointed to his forehead and smiled. I planted a kiss where his finger was.

“Thank you,” he said. “Better than turnovers.”

—

A long line wrapped aroundthe bakery. I took my place behind a baby wearing an orange beanie. Its chin was propped over its mother’s shoulder so it looked straight at me. Poor baby, I thought, you must be so bored in this enormous line. The baby grinned and nodded, like:Yes, yes, I am!

I felt an unexpected desire to hold the baby, to speak to it seriously, knowing that it understood me. The baby’s eyes widened. Its breath smelled creamy, like the velvet skin beneath Silver’s fur, which both surprised and comforted me, and then I realized I had gotten far too close to the baby—our noses were almost touching—and jerked away.

It began to wail. “I’m sorry,” I said. The mother shot me a disapproving look and widened the gap between us.

I stepped forward, hating the baby for blowing my cover, then feeling ashamed for begrudging a baby. It’s just a baby, I repeated to myself, even though I already knew that, thatwas the whole problem. I thought of the baby for so long the wordbabystopped being a word, just a sound like a babble in my ears. Would James and I ever have a baby? The idea was perverse, like wearing shoes on opposite feet.

The shop was crowded. A vibrant assortment of pastries sat behind pristine glass panels. Somebody had taken the time to label each pastry in cursive, along with detailed drawings of chocolates, hazelnuts, and raspberries. I wondered whether drawing food was a real job or just something a baker did in their free time. Probably it was the latter. Art, my mother said, was not the kind of skill you could just turn into work. You had to be rich or well-connected or at least have another job. I parroted this once to Lou. “Or maybe that’s just something you tell yourself to not try,” she said. I might’ve taken this idea more seriously if she hadn’t just gotten a job with her uncle.

The pastry person waved to get my attention. The turnovers glistened with caramel that leaked onto the pan, exactly as James had described. I ordered four, along with a coffee.

“Is that all?”

A bowl of saltwater taffies sat on the edge of the counter, half obscured behind a box of napkins. When I saw them hiding, I decided I wanted them, too.

“These are for show.”

“What?” I wanted them even more now. “Why?”

“I don’t know. You’d have to ask the manager.”

“Where can I get them?”

She pointed out the window. The door to the candy store opened. My heart leapt when I saw who emerged: thebaby! A pack of taffies swung from its balled fist. As the mother strode down the street, the beanie slipped off the baby’s head. Its mouth dropped, as if in slow motion, into a perfect O.

I rushed outside. It was drizzling. The beanie shivered on the ground, fuzzed with rain. “Excuse me,” I shouted. “Your beanie.”

The mother paused to let me approach. Up close, she looked old, much older than I expected a mother of a baby to look. Concealer caked in the wrinkles of her eyes. Slung over the arm that wasn’t holding the baby was a giant brown tote bag. Upon seeing me, the baby’s eyes lit, and it began to clap, dropping the taffies at my feet. Thrilled, I couldn’t help but clap and smile back. I felt like Princess Diana.

“Thanks. Keep the taffies, why don’t you?” said the mother. She nodded at the brown paper bag in my hand. “Those smell nice. Turnovers, right? Enjoy.”

“Oh my God.” I hadn’t paid for the turnovers. I thanked the baby for the taffies and sprinted back to the bakery, elbowing through the disgruntled line. The hard edge of the table slammed into my belly. A lone coffee sat next to the tip jar.

“Sorry,” I said, brandishing my phone. “I need to pay for these turnovers. I ordered them earlier and forgot.”

The girl at the counter sighed. “We’re cash only.”

“What?”

She repeated herself, pointing to a small label that saidCASH ONLY,decorated with an exquisite drawing of dancing coins.