The rain came on like a broken wave; sideways, horizontal, it seemed to splatter and fall in every direction against my face, soaking into the small white boxes of what Nash called "prissy-looking cupcakes" when he caught me in the elevator the other night on my way to deliver said prissy cupcakes to a client. The prissiness of them sure hadn't stopped him from trying to sneak a swipe of icing.
The rain came so thick, so violently I had to squint as I looked down the sidewalk, trying to catch sight of that poor scrawny limping cat. My thick Columbia hoodie was soaked through by the time I spotted him ghosting around the corner and I jogged after him to the back of our building. There was water collecting quickly into puddles, so much that my feet and toes were soaked by the time I made it mid-way down the alley. I dropped one of the sodden white bakery boxes when I tripped on a submerged crack in the pavement, cringing when two yellow-colored cupcakes floated down the gutter, leaving behind a cakey trail as they bobbed and twisted away. I dropped two more empty white boxes before I spotted the cat, who had scrambled up a tall pin oak tree which sat in the smallest speck of green space beyond the property gate. The poor thing had probably been looking for shelter from the rain, but seemed to be having second thoughts, given his soddy look, ears down, tail snapping. Determined to help him, I set down the rest of my boxes and tried to move a nearby dumpster with my hip toward the crooked limbs, intending to climb up and rescue the damned cat.
"What the hell are you doing?"
I jerked, twisting around with a small yelp, brushing my thick hair matted and tangled off my face. Of course it was Nash. "What are you doing out here?"
We had to shout. The rain spattered and crashed against the row of metal trashcans and three dumpsters that lined the back of the alleyway.
"I asked first. Damn, Willow, you're a fucking mess." Behind me the cat meowed, a loud, pathetic sound that tore at something inside my chest. Nash went on gawking at me like I was crazy, clueless, but that sad meow sounded just like "help" to me and I had to do something. But when I glanced up at the poor creature, then at the distance between the limb where he sat and the dumpster, I knew that it was too high. Too high for me anyway. I looked around, looked back up at the cat, considered trying to coax it down, looked for any other way up, but there was nothing, all while Nash watched me, both of us drenched to the skin.
I am capable of a lot of things. My mama definitely didn't raise a dainty damsel watching out for a prince, but even I knew my limitations. As much as it pained me, I exhaled, turning back to Nash as his wet face scrunched up in a hard glare.
"Can you help him?" I came closer, pulling on his wet jacket, imploring. There was something in his eyes-hesitation, irritation, like he hated how drawn to me he was, yet still worried, wanting to pull me inside, to protect me from the mess I'd gotten myself into. But I didn't care how he looked or what he thought. He could look at me like that all he wanted. As long as he helped the poor cat. "Please, Nash, look at him. He's just a baby."
Okay. That might have been an overstatement. Even I knew the baby in question was the ugliest cat that ever walked the earth and was no baby either. He was small, but scrappy with a thick rat's nest of a tail that broke into a weird angle in the middle. And one of his ears looked to be eaten clean off with mites or some other disgusting mess alley cats got into. And he was filthy. And pissed off. Still, at that moment, more than anything, I wanted to help that cat.
My mother had taught me not to rely on my looks for anything, but come on, sometimes being a woman gives you the upper hand. I adjusted my expression, working up a look that was worried and sad, because I was worried and sad, at least about the lost day and the sad little hurt kitty. But yeah, I laid it on a little thick, because I knew it could and still make it work.
And it did work. Oh, he looked me up and down, looked for a way out, but when he finally admitted to himself that my shorter arms and smaller-than-his legs wouldn't help me climb up that dumpster to rescue the ugly meowing little cat, he sort of gave up the ghost and resigned himself to helping out.
And I didn't plan it, but suddenly, without any warning, I sneezed, a racking loud sound that made the cat jerk in alarm. "You okay?" Nash asked, and I knew I had him hooked.
"I'm fine," I promised, but I wasn't going to make it sound as sure as I felt. "Please. I'd get up there, but I'm too short to reach. You're a good three inches taller than me."