Chapter 1
Chapter One
Henry
AS SOON AS I open the shop, cats surround me. They wind between my legs. They chase my steps, batting at my ankles and shins as I carefully shuffle toward the back of the café and the door marked "STAFF." The meowing only gets louder when I unlock the door.
"Okay, okay," I say to my plaintive crowd. "I can't get your breakfast if you don't let me through."
Some of the cats dart into the staff room, climbing onto shelves and counters. Some are wise enough to wait out in the café itself. Those tend to be the older cats, the ones who've lived at the café longer and know I'll bring their food out for them.
It's a dance I do five days a week, and I still don't hate it, even when Poppy threatens to trip me by running between my legs and Bubba swats at me from his perch. The cats can be temperamental in the morning, but I don't hold it against them. They're cats. There's no malice, just a desire for breakfast. And I find their simple, blunt needs relaxing. I take care of them, and they appreciate me for it. I'm almost always the person opening the café, and there are days I close it as well. I'm the human these cats know best, at least until they get adopted into a forever home.
I fill all the food bowls, eventually, and the cats calm down. While they're busy eating, I put the food away and get out the broom and cleaning spray. No matter how often we sweep, there's always more cat hair to collect. We try to keep the place tidy, however. We aren't a cat rescue; we're a cat café, the only one to be found unless you drive an hour to Seattle. That means we have to keep this place as clean as possible in order to pass health inspections.
It takes me all morning to wipe down the tables and sweep up the hair. The cats drift to their favorite perches. Boots and Tux, the kittens, wrestle on the floor. They won't be here long; kittens rarely are. Old Babs climbs to the highest place she can reach and settles in for a nap. Tilly hops from one platform to the next, annoying the cats who prefer to spend their mornings sleeping.
The phone rings, and I rush to answer it. We open in five minutes, and I'll need to be ready to make coffee and tea and bring out pastries almost immediately, all while answering guests' questions about the cats.
"Hello, Rainbow Rescue Cat Café," I say automatically.
"Hey, Henry. It's me. Listen, I need to call out today."
I recognize my co-worker Brittney's voice. She's a student at the high school nearby and usually comes in a couple days a week after school to close. We don't have a huge staff here, so the high school students make it so I don't have to work ridiculous ten-hour shifts.
Except today it sounds like I'm in for a long one.
I don't listen to her excuse. Homework. Extracurriculars. Her mom needs something. It won't be the first time she's done this, and I frankly don't care too much which excuse she's employing this time. I'm pretty sure she's making it up, but it doesn't matter. The end result is the same whether it's real or an excuse: I'll be here all day. The other full-time guy we have, Sebastian, doesn't usually come in on Mondays, and the café is so small that that's pretty much our whole staff. I mean, how many people need to man a cat café in a small town in the boonies an hour outside of Seattle? Tripp Lake, Washington, didn't even have a cat café until a few years ago, and it's a total novelty in a town that has a single main street and a whole lot of trees.
I let Brittney go. I suddenly have way too much to do to worry about her. I rush to get ready to open, but my five minutes vanished in the course of that phone call. Soon enough, people are showing up in clusters. A few locals have started swinging by to get a coffee or tea in the morning on their way to work. They like petting the cats while they wait for me to make their drinks, and I understand why. It's a pleasant way to start their day before they sit in the inevitable traffic clogging I-5 most of the way between here and Seattle, where many of them work.
My morning disappears in a blur. I'm grateful I decided to hold my messy red-brown hair back with a headband so it wouldn't be in my way. It's one less thing to worry about as I make drinks, then host the groups who arrive in the afternoon for designated blocks of playtime with the cats. It's important that I maintain a smile and a cheerful demeanor, no matter how overwhelmed I feel. Some of these people will adopt a cat and give them a real home, and that matters way more than my exhaustion.
It being Monday, I don't have to stay "on" for too long, not that my attitude is entirely an act. I love what I'm doing, and I love interacting with both the people and the cats. It just gets tiring when I know I'm going to be here hours later than I thought I would.
As predicted, the kittens attract a lot of interest throughout the day. A mother here with two small children gravitates toward them, as does a man who stops in during his lunch break and mentions something about his kids always wanting a pet. I predict our little troublemakers will soon be making trouble in someone else's house.
Just like that, it's evening. The café gets busier all over again. The high school kids wander in first. They love this place — the ones who don't work here love it, in any case. I should be heading home about now, but I stay, showing off the cats, getting customers the occasional drink or treat, fielding questions. One group after another passes through the café, and I go on autopilot to the point that I barely realize when it's closing time.
My first hint is when my boss, Chloe, arrives. She doesn't need to be here for day-to-day operations, but she often drops in. She even takes a shift now and then. She feels more like a manager than the person who started and owns this place.
"Henry? What are you still doing here? Where's Brittney?" she says the second she sees me.
"She had to call out."
"Again?" Chloe's eyeroll does not bode well for Brittney's future employment. "What about the others? Did you call any of our other kids? I said there should always be at least two of you on hand."
She has said that. Frequently. And usually because of a situation like this where I let someone call out and simply accepted taking over all their duties as well as my own.
"I, um…"
"Oh, Henry," she says, setting a hand on my shoulder. "You're too sweet for your own good, you know that? You should have called and seen if anyone could come help you. You managed the whole café by yourself all day?"
"We're not that big an operation."
"Big enough that one person shouldn't be doing it alone. Please call someone next time. And if they don't answer, call me. I miss doing shifts here."
There is no way I'd ever call my boss and beg her to come work a cash register or espresso machine with me, but I nod. Chloe doesn't look like she believes me, but she lets the matter drop.
"I'm at least going to help you close," she says. "And make sure you log all these hours."
"You don't need to do that," I say. "I'm sure you're here for something more important than sweeping floors."
"I was going to do some inventory, but cleaning up isn't going to waste too much time. Now hush and get the broom. Arguing with you will waste my time."
I accept her help, as much as I feel weird doing it. This is her café. She shouldn't be sweeping floors. But Chloe doesn't make a single noise of complaint as we clean the tables and floors I cleaned this morning, then get the cats their dinner. They howl at us until we fill the bowls. I give them a bit of attention, more for my own sake than theirs. And then it's time to lock the place up and finally go home. How many hours have I been here today? The sun had barely risen when I arrived and now it's setting so … too many.
"Get out of here," Chloe says when I hesitate for a single beat, checking around me to see if there's anything I could have forgotten. "And do not let high schoolers take advantage of you again."
I chuckle, but her words hit a bit too close to home. The kids often prey on my willingness to take any shift and cover for them. What am I supposed to do, though? I can't let Chloe down. And what about the cats? If they didn't get fed I'd feel awful.
Chloe would say someone else could handle it, that a single slightly late meal will not torment the cats, that this is exactly the reason the high schoolers get to foist their shifts on me all the time. But whatever. Maybe I just like being helpful, okay? Is that such a horrible trait?
I shrug on a light jacket and finally leave the café. Tripp Lake awaits beneath a whirl of pinks and reds and purples splashed across the sky like spilled paint. It's early spring, but the nights get cold in Washington State even when the days start warming up, so I stuff my hands in my pockets as I start my walk home.
The café sits on Main Street, along with pretty much every bar, restaurant and major store in this little town. There are a few things off the main drag, but not all that much, and on a Monday night, it feels like all of Tripp Lake sits snugly at home with their loved ones. Lights glow in distant windows. The rare car passes, but the street is mostly quiet. Little stirs besides the trees rustling in the breeze and the occasional bird flitting between the nests they've started building. This place is going to be stunning in a week or two. Everything will bloom, including along the trail to the titular lake that lies at the end of a modest hike outside of town.
I love it here.
Sure, it's small. It's quiet. I don't meet too many other gay people in a place like this. But Seattle isn't that far away, and this place is so gorgeous that I can't imagine leaving it for a big, noisy city. Plus, my mom lives here, and I get to have dinner with her any time I want. I grew up here. This has always been home to me, and it's only become more embedded in my heart since I moved out after college and got my own place, a tiny rented ranch home just a block off of Main Street.
Tripp Lake might be small compared to Seattle, or even Montlake, New Jersey, where I went to college, but it's home, and I don't plan to change that any time soon. Chloe has a Pride flag permanently hanging in the window of the Rainbow Rescue Cat Café, and no one around here seems to care. There's even a small Pride festival every year in a neighboring town. Maybe it doesn't compare to a huge event in a city, but who needs to swelter in a crushing crowd when I can have this instead? My home. Tripp Lake. The place I love the most.