Page 61 of We Can Stay
“I need to mention something,” I say after a moment, running my thumb along the side of her hand. “About the person who’s been contacting you.”
Her eyebrows draw together, creating that little crease I’ve learned means she’s processing something she’d rather not think about. “What about them?”
“I think we should file a police report.”
She studies my face, those hazel eyes searching. “You really think it’s gotten to that point?”
“I do.” I keep my voice steady, even though my pulse quickens at the memory of her fear in the coffee shop. “The messages were concerning enough, but after what happened the other day, it seems to be escalating. I don’t want to frightenyou, but I can’t shake this feeling that we need to document everything. Get it on record.”
I expect pushback. Questions. Maybe even denial that it’s serious enough to involve law enforcement. Flick has a tendency to minimize threats to herself, to power through discomfort whether physical or emotional.
Instead, she’s quiet for a long moment, her gaze drifting back to the rain-washed window. When she finally speaks, her voice is surprisingly steady. “Okay.”
I blink. “Okay?”
A ghost of her usual smile touches her lips. “Yeah, okay. If you think we should go to the police, then let’s do it. I trust your judgment.”
The simple faith in those words hits me unexpectedly hard. Here’s this fiercely independent woman who’s built walls around her struggles, who’s carved out a successful life despite chronic pain, and she’s trusting me to help protect her. It’s humbling and terrifying and perfect all at once.
“We’ll go together,” I promise. “When you’re feeling better. We’ll pick a time that works for both of us, go down to the station, and file the report. Make sure they have all the messages, dates, everything documented.”
“Together,” she echoes, and there’s something in her voice that makes the word sound like more than just logistics.
I lean down and brush my lips against hers, gentle and brief. She tastes like the peppermint tea I brought her earlier, and underneath that, something uniquely Flick.
“Text me if you need anything,” I murmur against her mouth. “Anything at all. I don’t care what time it is.”
“Even if it’s three in the morning and I’ve decided I absolutely need pickle juice and Swedish Fish?” There’s a hint of her usual playfulness breaking through the fatigue.
“Especially then. I’ll raid every gas station on the island if I have to.”
She laughs softly, then winces as the movement aggravates something. I start to pull back, but she catches my wrist with her free hand, her touch feather-light against my skin.
“Thank you,” she says simply. “For all of this. For not making it weird or... I don’t know. For just being you.”
Standing, I press one more kiss to her forehead. “Rest. I’ll check on you later.” I force myself to leave the bedroom, pulling the door partially closed behind me.
Downstairs, darkness has swallowed Flick’s living room. I flick on the table lamp, and warm light spills across the space, illuminating Cat’s small form curled into an impossibly tight ball on the center cushion of the couch. Her purr rumbles like a tiny diesel engine, steady and content.
“Move over, couch hog.” I scratch behind her ear, and she leans into my touch without opening her eyes, her purr intensifying.
I sink onto the cushion beside her, careful not to disturb her too much, and pull out my phone. The weight of the device in my hand feels heavier than usual, loaded with all the unread emails and messages I know are waiting.
These past few days with Flick have been a revelation in more ways than one. Taking care of her, being present for her needs, has filled something in me I didn’t realize was empty. But woven through those moments of connection and purpose is a constant, thrumming anxiety about everything else in my life that’s threatening to implode.
My chest tightens just thinking about it. Lil wants the money for the sanctuary land two months earlier than we agreed. One of my primary investors pulled out last week—ten thousand dollars vanishing with an apologetic email about “reassessing financial priorities.” I’ve been working every angle I can think of, callingin favors, cold-contacting potential donors, sending email after email to anyone who might help bridge the gap.
And then there’s Flick’s stalker, whose escalation has my protective instincts in overdrive. Every creak of the house, every unexpected sound from outside, has me on edge.
I take a deep breath and open my email app, bracing myself. Maybe tonight will bring good news. Maybe someone will have responded positively to my inquiries. Maybe?—
The inbox loads. Seventeen new messages.
My heart sinks as I scan through them. Spam. A reminder about a dentist appointment I’ll have to cancel because who has time for preventive care when everything’s falling apart? A newsletter from a veterinary supply company. More spam. A polite rejection from a potential donor.
Nothing. Nothing useful or hopeful or even remotely encouraging.
“Better luck next time,” I mutter, closing the email app before I’m tempted to refresh it obsessively.
