Page 3 of Catastrophically Yours
THREE
MORNING ROUTINES
Drew woke to purring—not the usual buzz of her phone alarm, but a deep rumble that should have been vibrating against her chest. Instead, it drifted from somewhere down the hall, muffled by walls and distance.
She bolted upright in the unfamiliar guest bed, her heart hammering as she patted the empty space beside her. The cream-colored duvet held no trace of orange fur, no warm indent where fifteen pounds of emotional support cat should have been sleeping.
"Pickle?" Her voice came out scratchy and small in the pristine room with its neutral walls and carefully arranged furniture.
Everything smelled like lavender cleaning spray instead of the familiar scent of her own apartment—her former apartment.
The reality of displacement hit fresh and sharp, followed immediately by concern.
Had Pickle gotten out? Piper's building had strict no-pet policies, and if he'd somehow escaped into the hallway or worse, outside?—
The purring grew louder as Drew padded barefoot across the hardwood floor, her oversized Sleep-In t-shirt hanging loose around her thighs.
She followed the sound like a lifeline, past the immaculate living room with its precisely arranged throw pillows, toward the partially open door at the end of the hall.
What she found made her stop dead in the doorway.
Pickle sprawled across Piper's bed like he owned it, his massive orange bulk spread across what had obviously been a perfectly made duvet five minutes earlier.
His green eyes were half-closed in bliss as his paws kneaded rhythmically against the expensive-looking fabric, claws catching slightly on the thread count that probably cost more than Drew's last three grocery bills combined.
At the small desk positioned near the window, Piper sat with her back straight and shoulders squared, strawberry blonde hair already styled into its precise bob despite the early hour.
She wore a crisp white button-down and pressed black slacks, and she was sorting through a stack of files with color-coded tabs while Pickle supervised from his claimed territory.
"Oh." The word escaped Drew before she could stop it. "I'm sorry, he's never done this before. He must have pushed your door open somehow."
"He's fine." Piper didn't look up from her files, but her voice held none of the irritation Drew had braced for. "I was already awake."
Drew hovered in the doorway, uncertain whether to enter or retreat.
The scene felt impossibly domestic—too intimate for two virtual strangers sharing space out of necessity.
Piper's bedroom reflected the same minimalist aesthetic as the rest of the apartment, all clean lines and muted colors, but Pickle's presence transformed it into something warmer. More lived-in.
"It's seven-fifteen," Piper continued, finally glancing up to meet Drew's eyes. Her wire-rimmed glasses caught the morning light filtering through the gauze curtains. "Coffee finishes brewing in three minutes. I watch the news at seven-thirty and respond to work emails at eight."
The military precision of it should have been off-putting, but her tone suggested this wasn't criticism—just information. A roadmap to navigating the morning without collision.
"Right. Okay." Drew shifted her weight from foot to foot, very aware of her bare legs and messy hair. "I should probably get him?—"
Pickle chose that moment to lift his head and fix Drew with a look of supreme contentment before deliberately settling back into his cozy spot and resuming his purring.
The dismissal was pointed but not personal—more like a cat announcing he'd found the optimal sleeping arrangement and intended to keep it.
"Apparently he's found the warmest bed in the apartment," Drew said, feeling heat rise in her cheeks.
The corner of Piper's mouth twitched. It might have been a smile.
Twenty minutes later, after Drew had managed to make herself somewhat presentable in yesterday's clothes, she found Piper in the kitchen with Pickle winding around her ankles like he'd been doing it for years.
The cat's motor-purr filled the small space as Piper moved between counter and refrigerator with efficient grace, seemingly unbothered by fifteen pounds of orange fur threatening to trip her with every step.
"Pickle." Drew's voice carried a note of gentle warning. "Come here, buddy."
Pickle acknowledged her with one ear flick but continued his figure-eight pattern around Piper's legs, occasionally rubbing his cheek against her pressed slacks in a way that definitely left orange fur evidence.
He seemed fascinated by her precise movements, the way she measured coffee grounds and arranged items with mathematical precision.
Drew tried again, this time crouching down and reaching into the small bag of supplies she'd managed to grab during her hasty evacuation. She shook his favorite treat bag—the expensive ones that usually sent him into a frenzy of excitement.
Pickle glanced at her, then back at Piper's fascinating morning routine, clearly torn between treats and his new hobby of observing someone who moved with such purposeful efficiency.
"Here, Pickle. Come on." Drew produced his catnip mouse, the raggedy gray thing that had been his comfort object since kittenhood. She squeaked it hopefully.
This time he padded over to investigate, bumping his head against Drew's hand in greeting before returning to his study of Piper's ankles. Not rejection—just a cat being a cat, exploring his new territory and the interesting humans who inhabited it.
"He's just curious about the new environment," Piper said quietly, though whether she was trying to convince Drew or herself wasn't clear.
She held a piece of whole grain toast in one hand and a perfectly portioned cup of coffee in the other, her breakfast as controlled as everything else in her life.
"Cats like to understand their territory before they settle in. "
"Right." Drew forced brightness into her voice. "Everything's new for him. New smells, new routines to figure out."
But as she watched Pickle gaze up at Piper with obvious fascination for her organized movements, Drew realized this wasn't about choosing sides or emotional manipulation. This was simply what cats did when they encountered something intriguing—they investigated thoroughly.
The thought of contributing something besides chaos and cat hair struck her suddenly.
Piper's refrigerator held single-serving containers of what looked like expensive prepared meals and a few basic staples arranged with geometric precision.
The freezer probably contained similar lonely portions, the kind of convenient food that spoke to someone who viewed cooking as an inefficiency rather than a pleasure.
"I could make dinner tonight," Drew offered, the words tumbling out before she could second-guess them. "I know some family recipes that might be nice for a change. If you don't mind me using your kitchen."
Piper paused with her coffee cup halfway to her lips, considering. "You don't have to?—"
"I want to." The earnestness in her own voice surprised Drew. "You're helping me out of a really bad situation. It's the least I can do. Plus, I actually love cooking when I have access to a real kitchen instead of a hot plate."
Her expression shifted, too quick to interpret. "What kind of recipes?"
"My grandmother Elena's tamales." Drew felt herself smile at the memory. "She taught me when I was going through a rough patch in high school. Said food was one of the ways we take care of people we love."
The word hung between them—love—too intimate for their strange situation but impossible to take back. Drew felt heat creep up her neck.
"I mean, people we care about. In general." The clarification only made it worse.
Piper's gaze flicked to Pickle, still purring against her ankles, then back to Drew. "I haven't had homemade tamales since..." She trailed off, shook her head. "That sounds nice. Thank you."
The afternoon found Drew at the small grocery store six blocks from Piper's apartment, Elena's handwritten tamale recipe displayed on her cracked phone screen.
She'd photographed all of her grandmother's recipe cards years ago, digital insurance against loss or damage, and scrolled through them now like a deck of precious memories.
The ingredients list required careful budgeting.
Dried chiles, masa harina, lard, pork shoulder for the filling.
She'd have to skip her morning coffee runs for the rest of the week to afford everything, but the prospect of creating something meaningful in Piper's sterile kitchen made the sacrifice worthwhile.
She selected each item with the kind of attention Elena had taught her—pressing the chiles to check for flexibility, choosing pork with the right ratio of fat to lean meat, testing the masa harina's texture between her fingers.
The elderly woman at checkout smiled knowingly at Drew's careful selections—one cook recognizing another.
By four o'clock, Piper's kitchen had been transformed into something Elena would have recognized.
Drew had covered every available surface with prep bowls, cutting boards, and ingredients in various stages of preparation.
The dried chiles simmered on the stove, filling the apartment with earthy heat and the deep, complex aroma of toasted spice.
She'd found Piper's bluetooth speaker hidden in a cabinet and paired her phone to it, letting Esperanza Spalding's voice fill the space while she worked.
The music loosened something in her shoulders that had been tight since yesterday's eviction notice, muscle memory responding to rhythm the way it always did.
Drew was crushing garlic with the flat side of a knife when she heard Piper's key in the front door. The sound sent an unexpected flutter through her chest—part anxiety about the mess she'd created, part anticipation for Piper's reaction to the transformation.