My friends have a plethora of theories, and I get to hear all of them, whether I want to or not. Simone, of course, thinks it’s all a big mistake and that the bank will take care of it. Phoebe suspects a shopkeeper or cashier copied down the numbers when I used my card to pay for something. Mac believes it’s a prank. By whom, he hasn’t determined. But he feels confident that I’ll get home and someone will be there, doubled over in laughter at the scare they’ve given me. In his version, we’ll all end up chortling with them.
When I open the door to my condo, that is not what happens. Although there is someone inside waiting for me. It’s Elena, sitting on the floor with her legs crossed beneath her. Rather than laughing when she sees me, she begins to cry. Likely because she’s managed to lose my couch. Or possibly because she’s also misplaced my lamp, TV, dining room table, and everything else I own.
“What the hell?” Phoebe pushes past me and stops inside, her head twisting as she surveys the empty space. “Where’s your stuff?”
I stand in the doorway, too overwhelmed to take another step forward. My home is like a swirling black hole, but the Alhambra Cream paint-color version of white rather than black. It’s a relief that Phoebe is still standing instead of being sucked into its abyss. Behind me, Deiss clears his throat.
I whip around, eager to find something else to focus my rage on. I told him he and Phoebe didn’t need to drop me off. And I certainly didn’t ask them to come upstairs with me. Now he has the nerve to act impatient because I’d dare take a minute to collect my thoughts in the midst of losing every single thing I’ve ever owned? The accusation shrivels on my tongue the moment I see his expression. It’s soft, sorrowful even, and his eyes are filled with sympathy.
“Is there any chance you left it this way?” He squints, as if he’s genuinely hoping that’s the case.
I shake my head and turn on my heel, striding toward Elena in search of answers. I already know what happened, though. The details don’t matter. Only the root cause does: I broke the rules. All of them. I quit my job, went off budget, turned my back on my home, and ran away like a child to play with my friends. Did I really believe there wouldn’t be consequences?
Elena scrambles up to meet me, wrapping her arms around me like a soggy blanket. I stiffen. If she expects me to be the girl who drank alcoholic milkshakes with her last week, she’ll be disappointed. That girl had a blender. And a framed certificate that proved her submissions were the most valued at Infinity Designs in 2019. And all the things she’d spent her hard-earned money on over the years to prove she could provide a home for herself.
But more important than the loss of my things is the absence of a disdainful cat, mewling in response to the loss of his hiding place.
“Where’s Cat Stevens?” My voice is sharp enough that Elena freezes for a moment before beginning to sob anew.
“I’ve lost him,” she cries. “Twice.”
I feel a sharp pang in my chest, but this news is just as inevitable as the rest of it was. I knew better than to get a cat. My mother and I had to get rid of Boots when I was nine because Paul Davenport （my mother’s boyfriend for long enough that I’d begun to tentatively and pathetically refer to him as Dad） went into a rage over her litter box. He claimed it reeked, despite the fact that I was diligent about cleaning daily. Despite Boots’s banishment and a three-day deep clean on the house, the damage was insurmountable. We’d become tainted by association, as smelly and pervasive as cat poo, and Paul-turned-Dad soon joined the list of men who’d deemed my mom and me lacking.
In truth, I never missed Paul nearly as much as I missed Boots. I visited her sometimes at the pound, before a more faithful family adopted her. Even after she disappeared, I kept going. Playing with the other cats. Nervously petting the dogs. The habit followed me to LA, which is where I found Cat Stevens. He was as haughty as I pretended to be and equally distrustful.
“What do you mean twice?” Phoebe’s eyes blaze like she’s ready to combust. Stretched up to her full height, she looks less like a willowy reed in the wind and more like a lightning rod. “What happened to all of Liv’s stuff?”
“I don’t know,” Elena wails, jerking her head back and forth between the two of us. “I think I messed up!”
“It’s going to be fine,” Deiss says, crossing the room to stand by me. “Just tell us exactly what happened.”
Elena’s eyes widen at the sight of him. In a shaky voice, she says, “I came to feed Cat, but the door must not have latched behind me. It was closed, though. And I was trying to be patient, you know? Give him time to warm up to me? But then I got off the phone, and I looked behind me, and it was open. Like, all the way. And I searched the whole place, but Cat was gone.”