Page 52 of We Can Stay
I shake off my melancholy and help my staff get the office back in order. By the time we’ve treated the owl, dealt with two sick beagles who got into their owner’s chocolate stash, and extracted porcupine quills from an overly curious golden retriever’s nose, my scrubs smell like a combination of wet dog, vomit, and that particular eau de tomcat that never quite washes out.
Finally, blessed quiet descends on the clinic. My staff disperses for lunch, leaving me alone in my office with paperwork that seems to multiply when I’m not looking. Through the window, I can see the supply shed where Flick and I had our first real date. The memory hits like a sucker punch—her laugh echoing off the wooden walls, the way she’d looked at me like I was something special instead of just another workaholic vet who couldn’t maintain a relationship.
We’ve been texting since I left her yesterday, curled up in bed looking so small and fragile it made my chest tight. All I’d wanted was to climb in beside her, to hold her until the pain passed. It killed me to leave her there, even though I had other things vying for my attention.
Bringing her items like ginger ale and hot water bottles is all good, but I wish I could help in a more substantial way.
Pushing paperwork to the side, I pick up my phone and give her a call. With every ring, my chest grows tighter. It’s not like she can pass out or anything from rheumatoid arthritis, but I still worry that if she doesn’t answer, it means something is terribly wrong.
“Hi.” Her voice, when it finally comes, sounds stronger than yesterday.
“Hey.” I exhale in relief. “How are you?” I try to keep my voice casual, like I haven’t been running through worst case scenarios for the past minute.
“I’m feeling a lot better. How are you?” A car door slams in the background on her end.
I frown. “Are you out?”
And, if so, why? She needs to be at home resting. I can grab her anything she might need.
I’m about to tell her so, but she’s already responding. “Yeah, I’m going into Knit Happens.”
“To work?”
“Only for a few hours.” She pauses. “Hannah needs the help, and I’ll be fine. Don’t worry. I really am doing better.”
I rub my brow. “Okay. Do you need me to bring anything to you while you’re there? Some lunch? Or?—”
An explosion of snarls and barks erupts in the hallway, drowning out whatever I was going to offer. The sound of claws scrabbling on linoleum follows.
“One second,” I tell Flick, already moving toward the door.
Two German Shepherd littermates have decided the hallway is the perfect place for a wrestling match, their leashes tangled around poor Jenna’s legs. Their owner stands frozen, clutching an empty collar while one of the dogs play-bows and the other tries to make a break for the exit.
By the time I help wrangle them into an exam room, precious minutes have passed. I sprint back to my office, nearly slipping on a suspicious wet spot near the door.
“Sorry,” I pant into the phone. “Dogs, you know.”
Her laugh is like warm honey. “I heard. Thank you for offering to bring me lunch, but I have some soup. I’m good. Plus, you sound like you have your hands full.”
Understatement of the century. But I’d drop everything in a heartbeat if she needed me. That’s the problem—I’m starting to realize I’d drop everything for her, period. And that terrifies me more than any aggressive patient ever could.
“Are you at work all day?” she asks.
“Yeah.” The guilt sits heavy in my stomach. “After I’m done here, I have a shift at the emergency clinic. And I need to get my presentation together for this conference I’m going to.”
Even as I list my obligations, I can hear Ben’s voice from our last conversation:You hide behind your work, Sebastian. Always have, ever since Jessica left.
“That sounds like fun.”
“Maybe.” I shrug, even though she can’t see it. The conference will be three days of networking and presentations, every moment scheduled.
I consider inviting her to come with me, then immediately dismiss the idea. She’d be bored out of her mind listening to presentations on advanced surgical techniques and practice management. Plus, I’ll barely have time to sleep, let alone be decent company.
“I’m at the shop,” she says, her voice pulling me back. “I should get inside.”
“Of course.” The conversation is too short. Everything with her feels too short. But I can’t stop myself from adding, “Hey, I have some time between my shift here and when I need to be at the emergency clinic. Do you mind if I stop by and installthose security cameras you ordered? It’ll make me feel better to know they’re up and running when I’m out of town for the conference.”
There you go again, the voice observes.Trying to fix everything. Control everything.
