Page 68 of Kitten

I didn’t know what to say. It surprised me that Lou cared about what people thought. “Is it too early to leave?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s just stay here for a bit.” I took her drink. It tasted sour but wasn’t bad, considering its terrifying color. We passed the cup back and forth, even though there was a stack of empty ones to my left. The cracks in our teeth grew black.

Lou’s phone pinged. “No way,” she said. “Nicolo texted me. His party’s flopping, thank God.”

“Compassionate as ever.”

But her head was already bowed as she focused on formulating a response.

I glanced at my phone, willing a notification to come through. Nearly an entire month had passed since I last saw James. Each day started with the hope that he might text me and ended with the knowledge that he wouldn’t. Still, the hope persisted. It was only when I told Lou about my new obsession with my phone that she clued me in to the fact that I missed him.

In the weeks following our break, I’d drafted dozens of texts to James that I always ended up deleting and safekeeping in my Notes. The steadily growing block of text supported my hypothesis that I was finally living a real life, and I wanted him to know about it. I considered journaling, but the idea of a private notebook was so unappealing that I had to accept that my pleasure in writing the texts was rooted in the possibility that I’d slip up, hit send, and force James to read them.

A pigeon keeps tapping at our window. I feel sorry for him because he lives in such a stinky neighborhood. Do you think pigeons care about that kind of thing?

Lou told me I’m misusing the word “modern.” She says most of the time what I really mean is “contemporary.”

I’ve discovered how to cook pasta al dente. I used to think that was raw. I admit that for our entire relationship I thought you were undercooking the pasta.

Our pigeon has stopped coming by. Lou said he probably got run over by a car. But maybe he got in with a bad crowd. Or grew sick of the college students who always get drunk beneath our window. Or fell in love.

Lou peered over my shoulder. “Who’s that essay for?”

I clutched my phone to my chest. “They’re drafts. Things I never sent to James.”

“Poor Katie.” She stuck out her bottom lip. “Your first breakup.”

“We’re not broken up.”

“Totally, yeah, on a break. There’s a difference.”

“You’re so mean.”

“Sorry, sorry.” She threw her arms around me. I could tell her bad mood had passed. “I’m evil. Don’t be sad. Forget about James, we’re going to have a fun night.”

For a moment we stood there, huddled in the corner of the kitchen, passing our cup. A few people filtered in and out to refill their drinks, always lingering for a few minutes before leaving. This went on for ten minutes before Lou burst into laughter. “We’re actually giving the worst vibes.”

I agreed, even though the vibes didn’t matter much to me. She’d called me her first college friend. That would be the night’s souvenir, I didn’t need anything else. I wiped offthe smudge below Lou’s eye, she poured herself a separate cup of punch, and just like that we were ready to party.

—

When I returned home, itwas two in the morning, and the light was on in the kitchen. Still buzzed, I walked inside. Nicolo stood with his back toward the entrance, stirring something in a metal saucepan. He startled when I reached to grab a glass from the drying rack. “Where’s Lou?”

“She went home with this guy.”

There was a pause. It was awkward, but I didn’t want to leave yet, only to crawl into bed alone. I decided to be bold. “Why are you cooking at two in the morning?”

“I have insomnia,” Nicolo said.

I admitted to having trouble sleeping recently, too.

Nicolo clicked his tongue. “Yes, well, I have slept badly since I was a baby.”

“I thought all babies had trouble sleeping.”

“My troubles were advanced.”