Jamie seemed in his thoughts as we walked the street up to the café, his hands tucked in his pockets and eyes on the cobblestone below our feet, but when we opened the door to the café, he perked up again.

It looked a little strange to me. We sort of walked straight into a decision in the form of two, rather unimpressive hallways. Jamie led me down the one straight ahead where a counter that looked similar to a concession stand at a high school sat. We placed our orders as I took in the paw prints on the wall and the snacks for purchase. In the end, Jamie opted for black coffee while I chose the Americano, and hot drinks in hand, we made our way back to the other hallway. When we emerged into an open room with seating along the walls, I nearly dropped the cup in my hand.

“Holy shit!” I said, louder than I intended, definitely loud enough for the couple sitting at the first table to hear me. “There are actual fucking cats in here!”

Jamie barked out a laugh, pausing at the entrance with me so we could both look around. The inside of the café was quaint, sort of rustic, with wood browns warming the walls and floors of the room. But there were pops of color — a red door near the back, bright orange pillows plopped on the floor here and there, and brightly colored cat havens and toys littered the entire area.

And there were cats everywhere.

“When it said Cat Café, I didn’t know I was supposed to take it so literally,” I mused, eyes still wandering the space as a black and gray striped tabby wove itself between my ankles. She arched her back as she rubbed against my bare leg, then sauntered off, plopping down on one of the empty pillows and looking back at me as if to ask, “What are you waiting for?”

“Careful. I think that one is plotting how to get you alone and in a bathtub.” Jamie cracked a smile at his own joke and I glared at him before pushing forward to claim one of the last tables available. Some customers were sitting down on the floor with the cats, playing with different toys or posing for pictures, while others sat at small tables like the one Jamie and I had selected.

“How do you even remember that story, anyway?” I asked, sipping my Americano to the symphony of soft mews and human chatter around us.

“How could I not? You fell butt ass naked into a pile of cat shit.”

“You’re the worst.”

Jamie laughed. “Oh come on, you can’t hate cats forever.” He set his coffee down carefully and picked up a tiny black cat that had wandered over to our table. “Look. This one is so sweet.”

He cradled the little guy in one arm like a football, scratching behind his ear before rubbing his belly and repeating the process. And as if Jamie Shaw wasn’t already hot, melted sex on a stick, he was holding a little kitten inside a coffee shop with a five o’clock shadow teasing his jaw.

Lord help me.

We drank our coffee slowly, filling each other in on the last year and a half. I loved hearing about Jamie’s family and he entertained my stories of Jenna and me during senior year. He was impressed she’d gone off to NYU, and I tried not to feel that familiar pang of jealousy when he asked a dozen questions about her.

It was so comfortable between us, even in the silence, and that’s what I loved most about our time together. It never felt forced.

Yet, there were these small, almost microscopic moments of charged energy between us that broke the comfort from time to time. They came when one of us would stare a little too long, or smile just a little too big, or think just a little too hard. They were almost like little shocks to our system to make sure we were paying attention, that we didn’t slip too far, and I think it was those moments we craved the most.

When our cups were empty and we’d made the rounds to play with each and every cat in the café, Jamie checked the time on his phone.

“Do you still write?”

I was still kneeling, petting that same tabby that had greeted us at the door, and I peered up at him. “Yes?” I couldn’t believe he remembered that. I’d just started writing that year I met Jamie, and since he left, I’d slowly found myself writing more and more. Usually it was just poetry or assignments for school, but I could see myself building a world one day — telling a story that meant something to me. “Why?”

He held out his hand and I let him help me up, brushing the fur off my palms as a grin played on Jamie’s lips. “How’d you like to visit the most popular author in the city?”

IT TOOK EVERYTHING IN ME, including a hand hard over my mouth, not to laugh.

Jamie’s fists were clenched, his face red as he listened to the librarian tell us for the eighth time that there was no way in hell we were going to see the Dr. Seuss collection.

“As I’ve explained, sir, it isn’t open to the public. We offer exhibits during his birthday month of March and sometimes over the summer, but at the moment—”

“This doesn’t make any fucking sense!” Jamie’s voice had always been smooth, low, but right now it was booming, and while I was close to laughter, the tiny librarian was not. She had wide, owl eyes that, even narrowed at Jamie, took up her entire face. She was also about as tall as I was in fifth grade, but she wasn’t backing down. “So you’re telling me the collection is still here. It’s all here. But for some fucking reason it’s blocked off and no one can see it?”

“Sir, the collection is very fragile. Only researchers who have obtained permission can gain access to the collection.”

“We just want to see it,” he pleaded. “We won’t touch a thing.”

“I’m sorry,” she said again. “Now, if you continue to raise your voice, I’ll have to ask that you kindly leave. This is a library.”

Jamie scoffed, throwing his hands up in surrender. “Exactly! A library! But you won’t let us see the fucking books!”

The librarian rolled her eyes with exhaustion just as laughter won me over and I grabbed Jamie’s arm. “Come on, it’s fine. Let’s go.”

He pointed a finger at her nose as I yanked him away. “Karma is real, Mrs. Seuss Security. Just remember that.”

I laughed even louder then, tugging on him harder to pull him out the front door and back into the walkway of the UC San Diego library — the Geisel Library, to be exact — named after the one and only Theodore Seuss Geisel.

Dr. Seuss.

“As amazing as it would have been to see that collection, it’s not worth getting you arrested,” I said through my laughter, looking back at him. Jamie was still scowling and I learned quickly that looking back while trying to tug him forward and walk at the same time proved to be too much for my hand-eye coordination. I tripped over my own feet, shooting forward before Jamie’s arms were around my waist, catching me, steadying me.