Page 4 of Bi-Partisan

I give her an amused look because “very friendly” is a descriptor that could be given to about every orange tabby I’ve ever encountered—including my own.

“Anyway,” Sophie continues, “she comes in with this tuxedo in a carrier—so not her cat. Apparently, she found him in her back garden, and when she went out to say hi, he was way too friendly to be an alley cat—like tried to get into her house and walked right into the carrier when she got it out. So clearly this is someone’s cat, but none of her neighbors recognized him. So she brought him in to see if he has a chip.”

“I’m guessing he doesn’t, and she’s bringing him home if he needs an exam,” I say.

“No, he does, and I tried calling the owner, but he didn’t answer, and the registered address is all the way in Fairfax. So I’m thinking the guy just moved or something. But get this.” She grins as she pauses, presumably for dramatic effect. “The cat she found is also named Stanley. What are the odds, right? It’s like fate or something.”

“Okay, yeah, I’ll admit that’s a little weird.” Not that I believe in fate. I’ve always been a little too analytical for that.

“Anyway, Ashley said she doesn’t mind if we call the guy again and leave her information, and in the meantime, she’ll take Stanley home with her. She just wants to make sure buff Stanley is healthy before taking him home to meet her Stanley.”

“Buff Stanley?” I ask with a laugh.

“This cat is the most jacked cat I’ve ever seen. If he wasn’t the sweetest thing ever, I’d be sure he’s running some sort of underground gym for cats or something,” she says seriously.

“Okay, fine. I’ll go see this other Stanley. Just a regular stray work-up?”

“Yeah, Stanley didn’t look injured or anything. His little socks were a bit dir—”

“Red!” one of the other assistant’s calls from the hallway, and Sophie wrinkles her nose and whips her head toward the noise, her strawberry blonde ponytail swinging with the motion.

The unoriginal nickname started when there were two Sophies working at the clinic. By the way she frowns every time she hears it, I can guess she hates the nickname as much as I do—not that she said anything. She would never.

She groans. “Ugh, that can’t be good. Okay, Stanley and Ashley are in room two. Do you want me to run out and grab you some lunch while you’re in there?”

I shake my head. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Red!”

“Okay, I’m coming! For god’s sake, Carol.”

I laugh as she mutters the last part under her breath, then I take a second to center myself before heading back out of the break room to grab a blank chart.

Forty minutes and a healthy cat later, I drag my feet to the break room for the second time to try to take my break. The moment I step through the door into the dated, but clean break room, though, Sophie calls over to me from the smallest table in the corner.

“Sophie, I don’t care what it is. I’m going to lunch,” I say without giving her a second glance as I head to my cubby.

“No need,” she calls, holding up a brown paper bag and giving it a shake.

I frown slightly and turn. “I told you not to worry about it.”

“And I ignored you,” she says with a grin. “I got your usual plus a hot chocolate because it’s cold as hell today.”

Normally, I don’t like people going out of their way for me, but I’ve learned over three years of knowing her that this is just who she is. I met Sophie on my first day at the clinic, back when she was a receptionist working on her associate’s in veterinary technology. Despite her only having started here a few days before me and being almost eight years younger than me, she took it on herself to make sure I “felt welcomed while I settled into my new role.”

At first, I brushed her off. I’m an Air Force brat, after all, so after spending the formative years of my life moving every two to three years, I got good at adapting to a new place without anyone’s help. I honestly prefer to adapt to a new place on my own. I spent twelve years having people decide that, because I was the new kid, I obviously wasn’t capable of getting to class or making friends on my own, and it was their job to help me. And now that I’m well into adulthood, I realize that most of those people were well meaning. However, at the time, all it did was make me feel more isolated because as the new kid, I was more of a novelty than a peer.

I assumed Sophie was the same, wrongfully lumped her in with those people from high school who tried to become my new best friend only to immediately forget about me when I moved away. But she was persistent—always making time to chat with me during breaks between patients and sitting with me whenever I ate lunch in the break room by myself. Eventually she somehow made her way past my defenses and became someone I’m glad to consider a close friend. Plus, it’s hard not to like someone who crocheted me two stuffed cats to look exactly like my own. Those cats are now part of a small collection that sit on my desk because, as I’ve since learned, she stress crochets, so she’s never without yarn and a crochet hook.

I make my way to the table. “Thanks,” I say, and she slides the bag containing my apple walnut salad and mac and cheese combo toward me.

“So, how was Stanley?”

“You’re right. That is the most muscular cat I’ve ever seen,” I say, earning a laugh. “He is also perfectly healthy.”

“Oh, good,” she says in relief.

After that, we eat in silence for a while, which I’m grateful for. I need the time to decompress and slow my brain down after the nonstop day I’ve had. I eat with one hand and read a book on my phone—a queer romance Sophie recommended to me months ago that I’m finally getting to since it had a really long hold wait at the library. But then Sophie’s phone buzzes several times in succession on the table, and I glance up. Her face falls as she reads the incoming texts.

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