Page 13 of Tameron

The photo was for you. I thought you’d be happy to know I kept Knives.

Who the hell is Knives?

God, this man was exasperating. It was almost like his entire life’s purpose was to take every innocuous thing I did and turn it into a damn argument. But I wasn’t going to let him win. I knew damn well I couldn’t fix people just by being kind, but being kind had also never steered me wrong. He wanted a fight, but he wasn’t going to get one.

There was a good, kind, deserving man underneath all his anger, and I would be damned if I wasn’t patient enough to stand by until he learned I wasn’t out to get him.

Turning away from my bed, I held up my camera and grinned as I took a photo. Knives was half asleep, her eyes crossed, her tongue blepped out. I hesitated, but only for a second, then hit send.

Shoving the phone into my pocket, I returned to the kitchen and forced myself to ignore the immediate buzzing reply. I plated the food—a stack of sauced tamales—and headed for the living room. Knives shifted a little as I sat, but it didn’t take long for her breathing to even out in her kitten version of a deep sleep.

I made myself take several bites before I finally grabbed my phone and looked at Mr. Pissy on the screen before feeling bad and changing his name in my contacts. I braced myself for more unkindness when I finally opened his message, but I was pleasantly surprised.

She’s really cute. What did the vet say?

She’s not very old, but old enough to be without her mom. Slight malnutrition, but I got her some special food and some nutrition powder to mix in. She’s very clingy.

Why Knives?

I twisted my body as best I could without waking the kitten, took a couple of shots of my shredded Achilles tendon, and sent the photo.

Love hurts. You can come see her any time, by the way. You helped rescue her. She might have to live with me, but she’s half yours if you want her.

I waited a beat, but Tameron didn’t respond. Maybe that was too much. Maybe he was just making polite conversation and I’d read too much into it again. Or maybe it wasn’t that deep. I set my phone down and finished my food as I watched adorable bakers in the English countryside and eventually dozed off.

I woke with a horrible crick in my neck and an annoyed brother hovering over me. Dax had his bitch-face on even as he was cradling and petting Knives so thoroughly that she looked like she’d ascended into another plane of existence.

‘What’s up?’

Dax just gave me a dark stare, shaking his head. He had grease stains up and down his arms, though his hands were clean—from Fast Orange, judging by the citrusy scent lingeringunder the motor oil that clung to his clothes. He stepped back as I stretched and climbed to my feet.

‘You love her already,’ I accused.

He just glared as he held her close to his chest. ‘I’m not doing a litter box.’

Rolling my eyes, I walked past him to the kitchen, and I could hear him following me with heavy steps. He made an annoyed noise, but I ignored him until I’d poured a glass of water from the fridge.

‘It’s not like I brought home some hyperactive dog with separation issues,’ I told him, though it was possible Dax wouldn’t have minded that. We’d grown up dog-people. My dad had been approved for a hearing-alert dog when Dax and Dahlia were toddlers, and he’d always had one.

His most recent was Rizz—my niece named him—and he was a fat-butt, long-haired corgi obsessed with stealing bananas from my mom’s fruit basket and hiding them under his dog bed.

Dax sighed loudly and let Knives crawl onto his shoulder. ‘Has she been like this all day?’

I nodded and jerked my head toward the living room. I’d been on my feet all week. I was taking advantage and making sure I left an ass-shaped dent on the cushion before I went back to work.

Dax settled in his spot, kicking his feet up on the table as Knives got even more comfortable in his neck. ‘Where did you find her? And what do you call her?’

‘Knives,’ I fingerspelled. ‘And we rescued her from a tree.’

‘Knife.’ Dax vocalized with the sign and used pointer fingers instead of H-hands.

‘Yes.’ I nodded my fist.

He brandished his forearm, and next to a smear of grease, I saw very familiar scratch marks.

‘Love scratch,’ I told him.

He rolled his eyes but smiled as he reached up to pet her. We sat in comfortable silence after that, and it was easy to remember why my brother was also my best friend. That wasn’t always true about us though. He and Dahlia were eleven years younger than me, and the moment they’d passed their Deaf tests at the hospital, I’d been terrified my parents were going to love them more than me since I’d become the only hearing one in the family.

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