Nora groans as she drops her face into a patch of grass. “You’re going to die an old, lonely hag.”

“Thanks,” I murmur as I get back to my book. Relief washes over me when I spot the guy who looked at me tuck his book under his arm, lift his picnic blanket, and carry it back to his car.

“You’ll see, Ever. It’s going to be so sad. And don’t think I’ll be there to change your diapers or buy your groceries.”

“We are the same age. Who told you I’m going to be in need of a nurse while you live your best athletic life?” I pop an eyebrow up.

“Even Loki is not going to stick around. He is not getting any younger, your cat,” she continues, ignoring my words.

“He’ll live forever in my heart.” I tear the bag of Skittles I bought at the 7-Eleven two weeks ago and empty its contents into my mouth.

But Nora is on a roll. She is still talking, her words muffled by blades of grass. “And Joe? He is probably married right now. Or at least has a serious girlfriend or something. She is lovely. An artist. They met in New York. Fuck three times a day, even though they’ve been together for three years now.”

I smile bitterly, relishing the pain that comes with this statement. Because pain, after all, is a feeling, too, and I haven’t felt for so long. She’s probably right. Joe would be twenty-five now. This guy, filled with magnetism, sarcasm, and talent, is a catch. Anyone could see that.

“Good talk, Nor.”

We collect our blanket and head to my car. I drop her off at the funeral home for work, then drive to the post office and send Renn a huge package for his twentieth birthday. I got him funky new socks, ankle length—his favorite—a special Australian wax for his surfboards, and a gift card for Billabong. I add a heartfelt handwritten note. Then I go back home.

I push the door open and head to my room, where I toe off my boots and drop off my backpack. That’s where I usually find the lord of the manor sitting on the far corner of my bed, a look of deep exhaustion on his face. I don’t know what makes cats always look like they are fed up with your shit, but it’s one of the things I admire about them the most.

Only Loki is not here. I stroll to the living room. “Loki Lucifer Lawson, where art thou?” I call out. Normally, he’d meow something that translates to You’re not my real mom at his full name. Not this time.

Has he gone to his sugar daddy again?

I head over to the kitchen and crack a can of Fancy Feast open. I lower it to the floor and make all the noises people make when they want their kitties to show themselves. Nothing happens.

Not again. Have some self-respect, dude.