19. Vincent

NINETEEN

"This is Sweetums."

Kent holds a creature that appears to be an overfed cat on growth hormones. Featuring an orange coat, long wild fur, pointy ears, and paws like baseball mitts, he's the biggest feline I've seen in my life. Not that I've been searching. Does Kent know it's illegal to keep wild animals as pets?

"Holy mother of god," I say, gulping down a breath, "what the hell is that?"

"Sweetums. My cat." Kent attempts to cradle the giant beast like an infant, and to my surprise, it lets him. He bends down and kisses the top of its head, covered in wispy whiskers that must be half a foot long.

"He's a Maine coon." Kent rubs under the monster's chin, which seems to cast a spell on it. The cat's eyes close, and it begins purring. The sound expands until it fills Kent's rather cluttered apartment.

When Kent began getting dressed just after five this morning, it was clear to me that I needed to drive him home. Sleeping in isn't something my brain understands, and on weekends, I'm typically up by six, anyway. I planned to drop him off, get a workout and shower, do an abbreviated scrubbing of surfaces, and spend my afternoon working on LEGO Paris. But after our night together, when Kent invited me up to meet his "baby," declining felt rude.

"They're larger than most domesticated cats," Kent says, once again holding the cat up under its arms for my inspection. "Adult males usually weigh around eighteen pounds, but Sweetums is closer to twenty-five. He's got a little extra love on him. Like his daddy."

The cat climbs over his shoulder, and its hind legs poke at Kent's soft stomach. He really has the perfect dad bod. Fluffy, furry, and perfect for cuddling.

"Anyway, let me feed him," Kent says. "He's starving, right, Sweetums?"

The cat makes a noise, something between a meow and a guttural growl.

My eyes survey his space while Kent takes care of the ravenous feline, and—much like Kent—the word disorderly comes to mind. There's so much … stuff, and it's everywhere. The built-in bookshelves are tightly packed with an assortment of books, small decorative items, and cherished family photos. Over by the large bay windows, there's a cat tree, easily over six feet tall, overflowing with more cat toys than a small animal shelter requires. Sweetums is clearly one spoiled feline.

I search for a place to sit. The sofa is completely covered. Blankets. Pillows. Magazines. A tattered sweatshirt. A random selection of remotes, coasters, and books surrounds a hopefully empty pizza box on the coffee table. There's not a vacant spot to be found.

"There we go," Kent says, drying his hands on a paper towel. "He's all set for at least five minutes. That's how long he takes to inhale a can of cat food. Sit," he says, and then notices the state of his sofa, seemingly for the first time. "Oh gosh, look at this mess."

He begins folding blankets, plumping pillows, and stacking magazines on the coffee table.

"It's fine, Kent. I really shouldn't stay." My skin itches in such disorder, and the unhygienic cat, only a few feet away, doesn't help.

"Why not? There. Sit." He points to a cushion he's managed to clear.

The sofa, a deep navy fabric, has a few patches on the arms, probably from monster feline scratches. Doing my best to take up as little space as possible, I nod and sit. With my hands resting in my lap, I try to avoid unnecessary fidgeting.

Kent joins me, pushing more clutter aside, pulling his feet up, and grabbing a blanket to cover his lap. "Where's my good boy?"

I'm tempted to crawl over and let him pet me, but alas, he's summoning the cat.

Sprinting over, Sweetums bounds into Kent's lap and immediately flops over, presenting his stomach.

"This is our little ritual. He eats and then gets massive belly rubs." As promised, Kent massages the fur, kneading until, once again, the cat's purr roars like an engine.

"How did he get so, so …"

"Enormous?" Kent cradles Sweetums' face in his hands and then returns to running his palms up and down his stomach. "Maine coons are the largest domesticated cats. And Sweetums, well, he's super-sized."

For a brief moment, the cat looks at me, and before I can scream, run, or set the place on fire, he flips over and crawls toward me.

"Kent, I don't really like …"

His paws land on my thigh. Plump and hairy, the pressure of his body creates an indentation in my joggers. As he purrs, the sensation travels through my pants. My entire body vibrates and hums under him. When I work out, I can easily manage twenty-five-pound dumbbells, but out of nowhere, the same weight becomes an overwhelming burden. Sweetums peers at me, his eyes a deep amber, and his nose twitches.

"What is he doing?" I ask.

"Checking out his competition."

"I'm not competing with a cat."

"No, but he doesn't know that."

Kent leans over and begins petting the back half of the cat. Sweetums' rear rises at his owner's touch, and he immediately headbutts my bicep.

"He likes you. Well, your arm. You do have great arms," he says.

"Flattery isn't going to distract me from the filthy creature currently walking all over me." Usually, I'd take deep breaths to center myself, but there's no way I'm consuming massive gulps of air in such close proximity to this animal.

"Sweetums is very clean. He gets a bath every day. Sometimes twice a day. And I brush him weekly," he says, burying his face into the cat's back. Kent's face. Kent's lips. That I've kissed.

"You bathe him?"

"No, he bathes himself, right, Sweetums?" Kent lifts the cat off me and returns him to his lap. "I think Vincent has had his fill for now, buddy."

My body relaxes, but only the tiniest bit because while he may not be on me, he's still only a foot away. I haven't located Kent's bathroom yet, and the need for a quick scrub down overtakes me.

"Can I …" My head darts around, searching.

"Of course. There's a guest bath right off the kitchen," he says, pointing. "You don't want a shower, do you? Because if you did, that's fine. I'm happy to get you a towel. A toothbrush. Whatever you need."

A momentary calm washes over me as my heart slows down. He appears completely unfazed by the situation. By me. By my need to flee and scrub myself.

"No, I'm good, just want to wash up after the …"

"His name is Sweetums. He won't hurt you. I promise."

My chin takes a nosedive and I hurry to the bathroom. My brain knows people have animals. My dad and his damn goats. People love their pets. Sleep with them. Dress them up like lumberjacks for Halloween. My mother sent me a photo of one of the goats wearing a crown and tutu. I think it was supposed to be a princess. Or queen. My dad was kissing it on the snout. The filth. The grime. The contact with an unclean beast.

Kent wouldn't make me do anything I'm not comfortable with. Deep breaths. After triple scrubbing my face, hands, and arms, I return. Sweetums has fallen asleep next to Kent. With his head nestled on Kent's lap, his stomach slowly rises and falls with each breath he takes.

"He's down for the count once he's eaten and gotten a little love."

"Well, I should go," I say, eyeing the door.

"Oh, sure. If you need to go, of course. I really appreciate the ride home. Didn't think out the whole water, wine fiasco, and then spending the night at your place when I asked you to pick me up. But if you wanted to stay, I mean, I can make you some toast. Plain. We could just chat until I need to pick up Lia. I can put Sweetums in the bedroom if you want."

Do I need to go right now? No. The unfamiliar place. The clutter. The germs from having a living animal inhabiting your home. But Kent's face. His sweet smile. That beard. The way he held me all night long like the bed was the ocean and I was his life ring.

"I can stay for a little. Sure."

Sitting as far as possible from Sweetums (and Kent by proxy), I do my best to remain still and focus on Kent's face and not the hibernating cat next to him.

"There you go, see, he's harmless. Maine coons are known for their friendly temperament," he says. Sweetums stretches out his long body, his paws flexing and retracting. "And for their silliness."

"I'm not really an animal person."

"Really? I'd never have guessed that about you." Kent's mouth falls open and twists into his full smile, a hint of a dimple under the beard, and a sliver of his front teeth shines across his face. "You didn't have pets growing up?"

"Gosh, no. My parents always said I could have one if I wanted, but I never did. They kept asking and waiting, and it never happened. I think that's why my dad is infatuated with his goats now. My fear of germs began early, and well, animals are generally dirty."

"I get it," he says. "I always wanted a cat, but Gillian is allergic. She can only be around him in small spurts. When she went to college, Corrine and I split, and then she gifted me Sweetums, and well, he's really just a big baby."

"It's really sweet she bought you a cat."

"I mean, she was trying to distract me from the pain of hearing she was remarrying, but it's all good. She's happy. I'm happy. And I got Sweetums."

He pets his cat, and this time, Sweetums doesn't move—his heavy breathing a sign he's finally asleep.

"And you," he says, pushing his glasses up. "You like working for Hopscotch?"

"It's a job. And I'm good at it. Mostly. The intersection of technology and people. Making the data and techie stuff mesh with the human side. I've always known how to integrate systems and make things work. Before Hopscotch, I worked for a statistical software company that catered to corporate clients and when I met Marvin, he told me about this new educational software company. It was an opportunity to get in on the ground floor."

"Can I be honest with you?" he asks.

"Of course."

"You don't seem to love it."

My pulse quickens, and I cross my arms as I shift on the couch.

"I mean, who loves their job?"

"I do," Kent says without a hint of irony.

"I need a job. What else would I do?"

"Plenty of things. You love building. Working with your hands. Keeping things organized. There's lots of things you could do."

"Taking this position was new enough. I can't imagine a whole new direction." My chest tightens, thinking about the uncertainty and newness even taking the job with Hopscotch elicited.

"Sometimes you have to imagine something in order to will it into existence." Kent reaches over Sweetums and rests his hand on my thigh. "Is my job perfect? Of course not. Is there more stress than the paycheck warrants? Yup. But education is entirely underfunded. I'm not there for the money. Would I like to earn what I'm worth? Of course. But I'm there for every adult who shows up to make it the best experience for our kids. And the students. I'm there to help each one of them be as successful as possible. I genuinely love what I do."

"It's obvious," I say. "The way you interact with your staff. Brodie. That kid clearly adores you. Even if he loves Theo a little more."

"I mean, Theo's a big grumpy bear. It's hard not to fall in love with him."

I laugh, remembering the scowl he gave Brodie. "Yeah, I can see that."

"And that's why this is so important to me. Hopscotch. We need to show Dr. Cutler and the board that our scores aren't an accurate representation of our school's performance."

"Do you really think they aren't aware?"

"I suspect Dr. Cutler knows. She visits. We meet. But the board, they're only looking at data."

Kent inhales deeply. With a puff of his chest, he blows air through his nose, and Sweetums' back flitters. He's so clearly invested in his school. The people. It's more than a job to him.

"Well, I'm going to do everything I can to help," I say, reaching over and placing my hand on his thigh—the one without a massive cat's head on it.

After I dropped the ball at River, there's no room for error at Lear. Or with Kent. Whatever happens between us can't distract us or create problems at work. We both need this too much.

Standing, I brush my pants swiftly. "Well, I should get going."

"I have to pick Lia up in …" Kent says, checking his watch, "thirty minutes." He tilts his head, his bushy brows jogging up his forehead. "Why don't you join us?"

"Me? I wouldn't want to intrude on her Poppy time."

"Oh gosh, she'd love it. And I think you'd love where we're going today," he says, a small glint in his brown eyes.

"But I haven't showered. I need to change, and …"

"Go home. We'll pick you up in forty-five minutes."

Kent eases Sweetums onto the blanket and stands. Taking my hand in his, he kisses my knuckles. His whiskers prickle my skin, sending a warm shiver up my arm. This isn't what I had in mind for my day, but Kent has a way of making it hard to refuse.

"Are you sure?"

Kent leans in, his lips brush my neck, and he whispers in my ear, "Absolutely."