PROMISES » #MeToo ✔️

FIFTEEN // Piper

I pick him up, making the most adorable squeaking noise come from his mouth. I guess his meow must be really high-pitched still. He's so young and tiny. I bet he's only a month or so old.

"You're such a tiny baby," I coo, bringing his head down so I can kiss the top of it. He squirms, so I eventually have to let him go.

He jumps down and runs over to the door, bringing his paws up to claw on it. He scratches it, not knowing that the door is locked into place, so it won't move unless I turn the doorknob. And I do, eventually, but he looks so cute scratching the door so relentlessly that his little butt waggles. It's adorable.

I've missed having a cat to take care of.

I walk into the kitchen, Bandit under my feet the whole time. I'm giggling and side-stepping the whole time, making sure that I don't step on top of him. He seems to think it's fun, like he's supposed to be chasing my feet.

I lean down and scoop him up in my arms, holding him like a baby and tickling his stomach, which only makes him latch onto my arm and try biting me. It doesn't hurt, though, because he's too young to do any damage.

"I think this is the first time I've seen you up before noon with a smile on your face," My mom teases, placing her empty coffee cup in the sink.

I glance up, seeing she looks relieved more than she does amused. That confuses me a tiny bit, but I leave it alone, bringing Bandit over to her so she can see him.

"This silly head has something to do with it," I admit, eventually having to let him out of my arms so he can go play. I can already tell he doesn't like being still. He struggles to get traction on the tile in the kitchen, making me laugh as he fails to run away. He looks like a cartoon.

"I can tell," She nods. "What're you gonna name him?"

I shrug, reaching into the cabinet to grab a mug. I need some hot tea. "I'm keepin' Bandit. I like it."

She nods again, finally getting to the question I knew she was wanting to ask. I can always tell when she's stalling and trying to beat around the bush from her actual question.

"Have you written for the article yet?"

There it is!

I grab the kettle, surprised that the water is already hot, and pour some into my cup. "Yeah," I say, putting a tea bag in the cup.

"How's it comin' along?"

I shrug, discarding the used tea bag in the trash before answering her. "It's comin'," I say truthfully, putting a spoonful of sugar in the tea. "I wrote some last night."

"Yeah?" She sounds hopeful. Oh no.

"Yeah," I nod, leaning back against the counter. I wrote it. And I feel like last night I slept so restlessly I might as well have just stayed up and did something else. But I slept, kind of. I was on the bridge of conscious and unconsciousness all night long, but no nightmares – that I can remember. I still think I had one because my stomach feels uneasy this morning, but I could've woken up in the middle of panic attack again. The latter isn't uncommon.

Mom takes my short answers as a sign to stop pushing. "Cool, well, we need it by January, because the issue will probably go out sometime mid-February."

I nod. "Okay," I tell her, and then go to find where Bandit scurried off to.

Don't get me wrong, I love my mom, but conversations like that where she tries – or when I can tell she obviously wants – to venture into emotional territory are just plain awkward. I don't know if it's we aren't exactly the closest of family, or if I've just never really opened up to her like that. Well, I've tried. But she didn't believe me.