Cat Patrick: Just Like Fate

“Pajamas are infinitely better than what Felicity leaves the house in on a daily basis,” Simone says. “You should just wear those.”

“But what if we run into Joel at the coffee shop or something?” I pause, surprised to admit my crush on Joel so easily. Simone gasps.

“Well, aren’t we taking off the training wheels? Are you actually ready to go for it with Joel Ryder, Linus? It’s not like it’s a gazillion years late or anything.”

I smile, blushing slightly. “I don’t know about going for anything. But I think my unspoken admiration doesn’t have to be so silent anymore.”

“Well,” Simone says, “speaking of Joel . . . he was there last night.”

“What?” I ask, gripping the phone and suddenly nervous. “Joel was at the party?”

“Yep. I’ll tell you all about it when I get there.” She kisses the phone and hangs up, leaving me exhilarated and anxious. Just perfect for trying to lure a skittish cat from under a couch.

I coax Junior out with a mangy mouse toy before snapping him into his leash. I walk him up and down the block in the opposite direction from my house. Then I run up the stairs and shower with my own shampoo, not borrowed baby shampoo from Juju, and search my real bedroom for clothes that aren’t pajamas. It all feels so normal until I walk down the hall and turn the door handle that leads to Gram’s room.

I step inside: It smells like lavender, mint, and rose, and the air is still, like it’s waiting for something. Waiting for her. Invisible fingertips run up the back of my neck and I shiver even though the heat’s on. She left it on.

The room is like its own planet, so far away from my own. I walk over and touch the quilt draped at the end of Gram’s bed, soft after years of use. I run my fingers along the smooth wooden footboard, then the top of the low dresser.

“I love you, Gram,” I say quietly into her space. “If you can hear me, I just want you to know that.”

Nothing happens—nothing changes. But it feels like she heard me anyway. I leave and head downstairs to wait for Simone. For stories of Joel and kissing strangers and hot chocolate. For anything but empty bedrooms with smells that’ll fade over time.

For anything but thinking about Gram.

Simone turns down the heater when I jump in the passenger seat of her silver car, then she gives me a hug that lingers longer than usual. When she pulls back, dark brown eyes on mine, I remind her of her promise.

“No serious talk,” I say.

She smiles deviously, then, “Did I tell you that this guy Ed kisses like a dog licking himself ?” We both totally lose it; there’s a point when I actually wish I’d stop laughing because my stomach muscles hurt from overuse. It wasn’t the funniest thing she’s ever said, but all of the tension of the past week pours out of me. It’s healing.

“You have no idea what I’m picturing right now,” I say when we’re finally over it and on our way.

“Whatever you’re picturing, this guy was worse,” she says. “Oh, hey! It’s my song!” She turns up the radio and Electric Freakshow’s latest blasts throughout the car. We both sing along at the top of our lungs, but when it gets to the part I don’t know, I take a deep cathartic breath and let it out.

“Thanks for this,” I say, looking at her. She’s in a tight pink sweat suit, and her wild hair looks more model than matted. She glances at me, then back at the road.

“You’re welcome,” she says, navigating onto the highway. “Now grab my phone and check his text from this morning. I need you to read me the address.”

I co-pilot us to a neighborhood across town using the Internet GPS that never quite catches up to where we are. “It’s 2026,” I say as she begins slowly inching down the street.

“Evens are on the left,” Simone murmurs as she continues to creep forward. “That’s 2020,” she says, pointing to a yellow house with black shutters and accelerating a bit more. “2022 . . .” We pass a brick house with trim that needs a paint job. Then she pulls over on the opposite side of the street. “There it is.”

I grin at her. “Good luck.”

Simone sighs, then turns to grab a boy’s sweatshirt wadded up on the backseat. I reach to switch between radio stations.

“I’ll be thirty seconds and then it’s hot choc-o-latte time,”she says before shutting the door and jogging across the street.

In the emptiness of the car, the new station whispers out Electric Freakshow’s song again. It’s barely loud enough to hear:

“. . . are all just magnets for fate; stumbling, skipping, running at our pace . . .”

I whisper along, looking over as Simone takes the front porch steps. She rings the bell, looking back once to give me a thumbs-up, and then talks briefly to a cute guy who doesn’t look at all like a dog kisser to me. I guess that’s why you really can’t judge a book by its cover. She hands over his sweatshirt and gives him an awkward hug. As she jogs back to the car, he watches her go.

“Sammy’s?” she asks as she gets behind the wheel.

“Where else?” I ask, my mouth watering again thinking about Sammy’s famous salted caramel hot chocolate with a shot of espresso. “I need a scone, too. I haven’t eaten anything since . . .” My words fade as I think of the last meal I ate. I need a distraction.

“You didn’t tell me about Joel,” I say quickly. “At the party?”

“Oh, right!” she says, smacking her leg. “He asked about you.”

“Liar!”

“Truth,” she says. We’re still parked, and I’m sure Ed is wondering why we haven’t left yet. Simone goes on. “So Joel was all, ‘Where’s your sidekick?’ and I was all, ‘Dealing with family drama,’ and he was all, ‘Bummer.’ And then some girl barfed on the dance floor, which cleared the party faster than a raid.”

“I can’t believe it,” I say, shaking my head.

“Believe it, sister,” Simone says, checking her reflection in the rearview. “Your little lover boy might just have eyes for you, too.”

I don’t say anything else; I just take it all in. Simone shifts gears, and over her shoulder, the hookup house catches my eye. There’s a different boy leaving, and from this vantage point he looks even cuter than the first. Blond hair, blue-eyed college random. I nearly smile at him, but Simone peels out like she’s driving the getaway car at a bank heist and I almost topple into the backseat.

“Mony!” I yell as I straighten up. She apologizes, and I look back at the house once again. I see the guy stop on the sidewalk, shield his eyes from the sun, and watch after us. There’s a flit in my chest that feels like missing something. Then as quickly as he’s there—the staring, stirring boy— Simone takes a turn and he’s gone.

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