Page 63 of Don't Puck the Wrong Brother

"Field trip to a vet clinic. They were spaying a cat and I hit the floor before they even made the first incision." I grimace at the memory. "Not my finest moment."

"Blood's not for everyone," Winnie says sympathetically. "But there are plenty of ways to work with animals that don't involve surgery."

"True," I acknowledge. "Though I'm pretty committed to my bio ethics track now."

We continue the tour, meeting more animals—a blind raccoon, a three-legged fox, even a small alligator who was kept in a bathtub until he grew too large.

"This is amazing," I tell Sanderson as Winnie steps away to take a call. "How did you know I'd love this?"

"You mentioned wanting to be a vet," he says with a shrug. "I figured the animal part was what appealed to you, not the medical procedures."

I stare at him, remembering that reveal. "That's…really thoughtful."

"Don't sound so shocked," he teases. "I'm capable of listening and retaining information."

"Oh, right. You’re not just a jock meathead."

Our eyes meet, and for a moment, everything else fades away—the animals, the sanctuary, the complications of our situation. It's just us, standing together in this unexpected place, connecting in a way I never anticipated.

Winnie returns, breaking the moment. "I hate to cut this short, but we've got a rescue coming in, and I need to prep."

"No problem," Sanderson says. "Thanks for showing us around, Winnie."

"Come back anytime," Winnie tells me. "We can always use volunteers if you're interested."

"I might take you up on that," I say, genuinely considering it.

As we walk back to the car, Sanderson's hand brushes against mine. I don't pull away, and neither does he, our fingers loosely intertwined as we cross the parking lot.

"Hungry?" he asks as we get in the car.

"That’s my favorite question," I say, not wanting this to end.

He smiles. "There's a place about ten minutes from here. Nothing fancy, but they make a mean burger."

"Okay." I press my lips together, trying not to smile back.

The diner is exactly what I need after the emotional high of the sanctuary—cozy, unpretentious, and far enough from campus that I don't have to worry about running into anyone who knows us. We slide into a booth by the window, and I find myself relaxing completely for the first time in weeks.

"So," Sanderson says after we order, "on a scale of one to ten, how's this extended social interaction ranking so far?"

I pretend to consider carefully. "I'd say…eight point five."

His eyebrows shoot up. "Really? That's almost excellent territory."

"Don't let it go to your head," I warn, but I'm smiling. "The night's not over yet. You could still drop to a seven."

"Well," he says, a determined glint in his eye. "I'm aiming for a solid nine by the time I drop you off."

"That's ambitious."

"I'm an ambitious guy."

Our food arrives, and the conversation flows as easily as it did at the sanctuary. We talk about everything and nothing—classes, hockey, our childhoods, favorite movies. I learn that he's studying sports management, that he has a secret fondness for sci-fi novels, that he once broke his arm trying to jump his bike over a homemade ramp when he was eleven.

"Cade dared me to do it," he explains, dipping a fry in ketchup. "I couldn't back down."

The mention of Cade brings a momentary awkwardness, but it passes quickly. We're getting better at navigating around that particular landmine.

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