Free The Way Back to You by Michelle Andreani Page A

kitten gives an inquisitive, growly, “Mrroww?”
    “This must be the ‘complicated’ cat you were talking about yesterday,” Cloudy says.
    “Yeah. But things are pretty much noncomplicated now that my dad knows about her.” He seemed glad, too, like me bringing home a stray animal was an encouraging sign. (Not that I told him what I’d been doing before I found her or exactly what it was that prompted me to bring her home.) “I found her in a parking lot the other day. Her name’s Arm.”
    Cloudy jerks her head up. “Arm? As in, A-R-M?”
    My face gets hot under her gaze. I settled on the weird name last night, not thinking about how Cloudy would recognize right off that “Arm” is Ashlyn’s initials spelled out. “It’s short for”—I consider for a second—“Armadillo.”
    She lifts her eyebrows and I can’t tell whether she believes me. “And . . . Armadillo is coming with us?”
    “That was my plan.” My heart beats faster. Is she spotting the similarities between Ashlyn and this black-haired, green-eyed kitten? “I hope you aren’t allergic.”
    Cloudy watches Arm for a few seconds more and then givesa small shake of her head. “I’m not allergic. And this will be an adventure. Just think,” she says, in a teasing voice, “millions of boring humans go on road trips without cats. Total losers. All of them.”
    We both laugh a little. I don’t want this to be awkward, but it is.
    I close the hatch and motion to Cloudy that we should set her stuff on the backseat. “Is it still called a ‘road trip’ if it’s only for one day?” I nod toward her duffel bag. “And what’s all this you’re bringing? A pillow and a week’s worth of outfits?”
    “It might be hot down there.” A hint of panic rises in her voice. “And we don’t know what we’ll want to wear. You packed clothes, too, right? Like we talked about last night?”
    “Yup.” I have my coat on and am wearing last year’s baseball hoodie over a long-sleeved shirt and jeans. I also brought along shorts and a T-shirt to change into. From this not-so-new invention called “the Weather Channel app,” I found out Sacramento is supposed to get up to the low seventies. It’s more than forty degrees warmer than here, and it’ll be comfortable—definitely not the Phoenix-during-July type of misery that, for some weird reason, she seems to have planned for.
    After we’ve loaded her things in and taken our seats, Cloudy says, “Once we drop the basket off with Lita, we can grab breakfast to eat on the road, if you want.”
    “Sure.” I reach behind my seat for the bag of snacks I bought on my way here. “I got a few things for later, too. Still your favorite?” I ask, holding out a package of sour gummy worms.
    She gives me a look like . . . I don’t know. Like she’s amazedI would remember. The truth is, while she was always chowing down on sour gummy worms next to me in bio sophomore year (even on the day when I had to dissect a real worm by myself because she felt so bad for it), I kind of had a crush on her. She had some college boyfriend at the start of the year, and after it ended Matty was biding his time, so I knew I didn’t stand a chance. But I do still remember what it was like when getting to talk to her was a cool part of my day.
    “Still my favorite.” Cloudy accepts the candy from me. “What about you? Still addicted to Junior Mints?”
    In answer, I show her the white-and-green king-sized box I bought this morning and ripped into first thing.
    We smile at each other and it’s nice. Maybe everything else has changed since back when Cloudy and I used to be friends, but I’m glad there’s this one tiny thing we each know about the other that’s still true.
    AT CROW’S FEET Commons, there’s always an herby-skunky pot scent that hangs in the air—even at nine in the morning when no one’s outside sneaking a joint. I kind of hold my breath against it while Cloudy and I make our way across the