To Hiss or to Kiss by Katya Armock Read Free Book Online Page B

think I’m insane; she’s way too rational for that. Sometimes knowing what cats really think ruins a perfectly good image, though. And a lot of jokes on the Internet.
    Enoki comes in with his characteristic loud meow, jumps up, and awkwardly headbutts me. His concern is palpable and his presence helps calm me down. I scratch his head, really wanting to hug him but knowing he doesn’t much like it. Then I hear him. “ You can hug me, Chloe. Seems you need it .”
    I almost start crying as I bunch him in my arms.
    He even starts to purr. “ I know you like it ,” he tells me.
    I have the best cats, and I determine not to sulk all day over another cat.
    Before I can decide otherwise I text Naomi. Bring ice cream ASAP.
    A few minutes later I get a beep. Uh oh. What’s up? And then almost immediately, Duh. Tell me when I get there. Give me 20.
    K.
    Since I have at least thirty minutes—Naomi’s notoriously late—I decide to shower after downing two ibuprofen tablets. Hot, steamy water succeeds in washing away at least part of my headache and some of the embarrassment and anger of the previous night. The ibuprofen takes the edge off.
    Rationally, I know I just met Jorge and there’s no reason to be so upset that he was having doubts about kissing me. It’s not that I’m a total catch or anything. And it’s not like everyone kisses when they first meet—even if they are feeling it. And Jorge was definitely feeling it.
    I suppose it’s better to have second thoughts, though, than hook up and regret it. I’ve never been one to just jump in the sack unless I was specifically trolling for a one-night stand, and what I was feeling with Jorge was definitely not of the one-night stand variety. And after sharing my secret and learning his, we were way past the point where a one-night stand would work. That’s probably all part of the reason I freaked out so much when he didn’t kiss me. I feel like I bared my soul and got slapped down.
    Of course, I’m no good at relationships, so it’s probably for the best that this one never gets started. During my few and far between “relationships,” I generally tell myself that I’m trying to make it work while really I’m looking for a way out. Guess I’m more my mother’s daughter than I give her credit for. I haven’t seen or heard from her since I was ten.
    The memory prompts a wave of anger and I apply extra vigor to sudsing my hair. A hangover morning isn’t the time to figure out anything about my fear of relationships or my parental baggage.
    At least I look halfway presentable by the time Naomi arrives.
     
    * * *
     
     
    “Whoa. You look like shit. I see the need for ice cream.” Naomi brushes past me inside the house and heads to the kitchen. She knows where to find spoons, so. I settle in my maroon, overstuffed, comfy chair I snagged at a thrift store years ago and await her return. It doesn’t take long for her to return from the kitchen and hand me a pint of Häagen-Dazs.
    Naomi settles with her own pint on my dark brown couch, that particular piece of furniture rescued from a garage sale. The couch looks an awful lot like Jorge’s, except way more broken in.
    “So what’s up? Is this about the dogs?” She knew what I was planning to do last night and tried to talk me out of it because, as she told me, best friends try to stop each other from doing stupid, dangerous things no matter how worthy the cause. But she still let me go. Best friends also know when best friends won’t listen. And Naomi might be stubborn, but so am I.
    “Unfortunately, no. Although I did make brief contact with one of them. I think there’re five.”
    “Fucking assholes. I hope they get ’em.” Naomi stabs her pint of ice cream for emphasis.
    “Me, too.” I take my own frustration out on the ice cream.
    Naomi is thoughtful for a second, and we both take bites of ice cream as if to wash the bad taste of dogfighting from our mouths. “So if not the dogs, I’m thinking