Page 1 of Kitty Cafe & The Grump

Itap my finger twice on the bar. Todd says it makes me look impatient. It does; I know it really fucking does. But he drops onto the stool next to me just the same, grinning like a Cheshire cat. The man always looks like that—happy, as if the world just gave him the biggest hug ever.

It's dim inside the bar. The low light suits me. Moody, grumpy: just like me and the new season outside. Summer left without a goodbye, and now fall has crept in with the noise of the upcoming Fall Festival. Next will be the crowds and forced pumpkin spice lattes. Trunk-or-Treat hits the stores soon, too. People act like it’s the second coming.

I don't get it. I don't try to.

Maple Lane Falls is a town straight out of a Hallmark movie, starring men in flannel shirts and women in tall riding boots and a chunky sweater. Every goddamn season.

Part of me wants to hate it. But I don't, not really. There's something about watching this town working together, stringing up lights, hauling out the food trucks, and setting up the tents in the town square. The way this town celebrates everything—the Fourth of July, Labor Day, Pig-Out in the Park, Memorial Day... Always a reason. The square fills up, kids cutting between booths, a band on the stage playing country swing that you can feel in your boots two blocks away. Families with ciders in their hands, wearing matching scarves.

I watch it all from the outside.

And now that fall has settled in for real, the kids are losing their minds over Trunk-or-Treat.

The bartender comes over. Dark hair, dark lips, tight black tank top. Tattoos curl over her shoulder and down her arm, fading to dots and leaves at her fingertips. She flips her braid and smiles like she knows what I’ll say. “Want another one, Rydker?”

She knows my name, where I sit, and what I drink. Best part, she knows I’m not interested. Todd would crawl across the bar countertop for a look from her. She gives it to me instead. Maybe it’s my flannel. The ratty tee I wear. The Blue Jays cap, older than my worst years. Wranglers and boots from actual hard labor.

I know what I look like.

I stopped caring a long time ago.

“Two.” I nod at Todd. Too many words, waste of breath.

Todd slaps my shoulder. "Thanks for meeting me." Both beers hit the countertop, and we reach for them, glass cold against my palm. "Long day. But I wanted to check in." He pauses. "You been okay?"

I nod. Lift the bottle to take a gulp. The bitterness hits the back of my throat, and I hold it there for a second before I swallow. My chin lifts again to let him know I’m listening. Todd watches me the way he always does, like I’m a problem he’s still working out. Maybe I am, but I look away just the same. The bartender’s eyes flick to me from the other end of the bar.

I pretend not to notice.

“Good, good.” He sets his beer down. Breaks the silence like he always does, on his own schedule. “Real reason I called, if I’m being honest, I’m worried about you, Rydker. You’ve been back for a while now, and I’m not seeing it. The reintegration. You’re not...moving.”

I stare at the wall of kegs behind the bar. But I hear every word.

I’ve always been better at listening than talking. It quiets the thoughts in my head when someone else fills the silence. And Todd, he’s not just some guy I drink with. He’s my closest and only friend who also happens to be a psychologist, which means he actually knows what he’s looking at when he looks at me. He’s the only person who stuck around after my medical discharge, was there through the evaluation, the paperwork, and the disability rating. Bum knee. PTSD. Sleep apnea. The IED rewired something in my head. It left me flinching at sounds. One hundred percent disability got me a quiet condo above the hardware store that I inherited, a flannel shirt and a beer, and the kind of silence that keeps my lips sealed and my eyes open.

I thought that was enough.

Todd doesn’t.

“I want you to try something.” His voice goes firm. That’s his tell when he stops hedging and he means it. I look at him. He holds up a hand. “Just hear me out.”

I wait.

“There’s a café. Corner of Moss and Maple Lane. It’s not just coffee and bagels; they rescue cats from the shelter. Help them find homes.” He pauses like he’s bracing for something. “I want you to go. Meet the owner. Maybe help out sometimes.”

“I don’t like cats.” Flat. Final. The last thing I need is some hissing, clawing furball deciding my quiet, barely held together life is its new scratching post.

He smiles. Takes a slow sip before he turns to face me all the way. “Rydker.” Just my name. Like that says it all. “Do this for me.” His eyes don’t let me go. He’s a friend who never lets me down. That’s the problem, Todd makes it hard to say no. Trying to pull me out of my own head, and some stubborn part of me knows he’s right. I keep quiet about how I look forward to watching the seasons change, leaves falling on Maple Lane Falls, and the new relationships that spark during the Fall Festival. It’s almost embarrassing how much I notice.

But that’s just for me to think about. Not him.

I hold his stare for a long moment. Then I finish my beer in one pull and set the bottle down hard.

Sharp nod, slapping money on the counter, and I leave the bar.

Apparently, I’m scooping cat litter now.

Former soldier in the Army. I still wear my boots from real combat. Now this.