The second week of school brought a stray cat.
He appeared on my porch on Tuesday morning—orange, scraggly, with one ear that looked like it had lost a fight. He meowed at me with the confidence of someone who expected to be fed, despite clearly never having been fed regularly in his life.
"I don't have cat food," I told him.
He meowed louder.
"I'm not even supposed to have pets. My lease says—"
The meow became a yowl, indignant and demanding.
"Fine. Fine. I'll get you some tuna. But this is a one-time thing. I'm not adopting a cat."
The cat, who had no respect for my boundaries, followed me inside.
By Thursday, the cat had a name (Mr. Grumps, in honor of my neighbor), a food bowl (purchased during a "just in case" trip to the pet store), and a complete disregard for my attempts to find his owner.
"Nobody's claimed him," I told Theodore's door that evening. "I put up signs. I asked around. He's a mystery."
I wasn't sure why I was talking to Theodore's door. He wasn't home, or at least he wasn't answering. But Mr. Grumps had developed a habit of sitting on the fence between our porches, meowing at Theodore's window, and I felt the need to explain.
"He seems to like you," I continued. "He sits out here for hours. Maybe he senses a kindred spirit. Grumpy recognizes grumpy."
The door stayed closed. Mr. Grumps meowed.
"I'm losing my mind," I muttered. "I'm talking to a door and a cat and neither of them is responding."
I was halfway back to my porch when the door opened.
Theodore Blackwood stood in the gap, wearing the same gray sweater as always, looking at me with an expression that hovered between annoyance and something I couldn't identify.
"The cat," he said.
"What about him?"
"He keeps sitting on my porch. At night. Meowing."
"I'm sorry. I've tried to keep him inside, but he's very persistent—"
"I wasn't complaining." The words came out slowly, like he was surprised to be saying them. "I was... observing."
Mr. Grumps chose this moment to trot over to Theodore and wind himself between the man's legs, purring audibly. Theodore looked down at the cat with the bewildered expression of someone who had forgotten what affection felt like.
"He likes you," I said.
"Cats don't like anyone. They tolerate."
"Mr. Grumps is different."
Theodore's head snapped up. "You named him what?"
Heat flooded my face. "I—it was a joke. Because he's grumpy. And you're—" I stopped, realizing there was no way to finish that sentence gracefully.
"And I'm grumpy." A muscle twitched in his jaw. "Charming."
"I can change it. I'll call him Whiskers. Sir Fluffy Bottom. The Great Catsby. Whatever you want."
"Mr. Grumps is fine." He reached down, and in a gesture that seemed almost involuntary, scratched behind the cat's ear. Mr. Grumps purred louder. "He looks hungry."
"I've been feeding him."
"Maybe not enough."
I should have been offended. Instead, I found myself smiling. "You're welcome to contribute. I have extra cat food."
"I'm not contributing."
"You're petting him."
"I'm... inspecting him." He straightened abruptly, as if caught doing something embarrassing. "Good night."
The door closed. But not before I saw him glance back at Mr. Grumps with something that looked almost like longing.
That night, I sat on my porch with a cup of tea and Mr. Grumps purring in my lap, watching the light in Theodore's window. Something had shifted. The door had opened—not just literally, but metaphorically. For the first time, I'd seen a crack in the ice.
"What happened to him?" I asked the cat. "Why is he so sad?"
Mr. Grumps offered no answers, but he purred like he knew something I didn't.
My phone buzzed. Hannah, checking in.
How's the grumpy neighbor?
I thought about the way Theodore had petted the cat when he thought no one was looking. The way his voice had softened, just slightly, when he'd said "Mr. Grumps is fine."
Making progress, I typed back. Slowly. He petted my cat today.
Your cat or his cat?
Ours, apparently. Mr. Grumps has chosen both of us.
This is adorable. You're going to marry this man.
Hannah. I've spoken to him three times. Two of those times he closed the door in my face.
Enemies to lovers. The best trope.
I laughed, but something in my chest flickered. Not hope, exactly. Not yet. But the possibility of hope. The sense that maybe, in this gray town with its gray neighbor and its unexpected cat, there was room for something to grow.
"We're going to crack him," I told Mr. Grumps. "You and me. Team Sunshine."
The cat meowed in agreement.
Across the fence, Theodore's light stayed on until past midnight. I tried not to read too much into that.
(I read absolutely everything into it.)