What the Cat Knows

The orange glow of the pool light reflected off Sarah's engagement ring as she dangled her hand in the water. She wasn't looking at me. She was watching her neighbor's cat—a scrappy tom with half an ear—prowl along the fence line, probably stalking something.

"He's going after the goldfish again," Sarah said, her voice flat. "Third time this week."

"We should go inside," I said, though I didn't move. "It's getting cold."

She adjusted her sun hat—a ridiculous white straw thing she'd bought in Cabo last spring, back when we still took vacations together. The brim cast a shadow across her face, hiding whatever expression she might've been wearing. That was the problem, really. I couldn't read her anymore. Maybe I never could.

"Did you send the email?" she asked.

"This morning."

"And?"

"And nothing yet." I hesitated. "They'll call."

"They won't, David." She finally looked at me. "You've been 'freelance' for six months. At some point, it's just unemployment."

The cat caught something. A flash of silver in its jaws. One of the goldfish, probably. I felt a strange kinship with that fish—swimming in circles, thinking you're safe, then suddenly you're not.

"I'm trying, Sarah."

"I know." Her voice softened. "I know you are. But trying doesn't pay the mortgage. And it doesn't fix whatever this is." She gestured between us, at the pool, at the house, at everything.

I wanted to tell her about the panic attacks. How I'd sit in my car in the grocery store parking lot for twenty minutes, hyperventilating, unable to make myself go inside. How the thought of answering to another boss made my chest tighten until I couldn't breathe. But admitting that felt like failure, and I'd already failed enough.

The cat sat on the fence, goldfish thrashing in its mouth. It looked at us with yellow eyes, as if daring us to judge it.

"I could sell the hat," I said, nodding toward her Cabo souvenir. A stupid thing to say. Desperate.

Sarah laughed—this sharp, surprised sound. "Oh my god. David. That's not—you think this is about money?" She stood up, water dripping from her hand. "I don't care about the hat. I care that you're drowning, and you won't let me throw you a life preserver."

"I'm not drowning."

"You literally haven't left the house in three days except to check the mail."

The cat swallowed. Just like that.

"I'll call Dr. Martinez tomorrow," I said, and something in my voice sounded like surrender. "About the anxiety meds."

Sarah sat back down. She didn't say I told you so. She didn't say it's about time. She just took my hand, her fingers cold from the pool water, and we sat there together as the orange light faded and the cat disappeared into the darkness, satisfied.