Page 66 of We Can Stay
What do you call a bear with no teeth?
???
A gummy bear.
That’s horrible. Tell me another.
And so I do. For the next hour, we trade terrible jokes and random observations, and for the first time in longer than I can remember, I’m not thinking about tomorrow’s schedule or the clinic’s needs or the sanctuary funding.
I’m just here, in this moment, connected to someone who makes me want to be better not by doing more, but by finally learning to do less.
It’s a start.
CHAPTER 19
Sebastian
“You doing good?” I glance over at Flick, sitting stick straight in the passenger seat, her hands folded carefully in her lap.
“Mm-hm.” She nods. “I’m good.”
“Are you sure? If you’re not feeling up for an outing, if you have any pain...”
She studies me. “Sebastian.”
“Yeah?”
“Are you looking for an excuse to not take me to meet your family?”
“No!” I grip the steering wheel tighter, afraid she’s right and that’s exactly what I’m doing.
But not because she has any shortcomings. Because my parents are...original.
Yeah. That’s a nice way to put it.
My mind races through the possibilities of what could go wrong. Dad might launch into one of his conspiracy theories about Big Pharma—not ideal given Flick’s medical situation. Mom could share her theory about how clothing is a societal construct, complete with photographic evidence from their last vacation.
“I want you to meet them,” I tell Flick, pushing down the memories. “I want them to know you. They’re, uh, they’re unique.”
“My favorite kind of people.”
I grunt in response, watching the familiar landmarks pass by—the old water tower, the abandoned fruit stand where Ben and I used to steal kisses from local girls in high school. We’re only a few minutes away from Safe Harbor Petting Farm, the place where I spent as many hours while growing up as I did at home. It’s Flick’s first day out of the house following her flare, and I want to make sure it’s a perfect one.
Which is why I’m having second thoughts about bringing her over here.
It’s too late, though, because suddenly, we’re pulling onto the dirt road and passing the colorful sign. The main building, painted in rainbow colors by my dad twenty years ago, stands like a beacon among the trees. The paint’s faded in spots, giving it a weathered charm that matches everything else about this place. Animals—alpacas, pigs, goats, wallabies, and chickens galore—lounge in the shade in their respective territories.
A call goes up from the macaw area, and more birds answer. Their screeches mix with the bleating of goats and the low humming grunt of the alpacas. The air carries the earthy smell of hay and animals, tinged with the sweetness of the honeysuckle that Mom refuses to trim back from the fences. It’s like stepping into another world, one where animals reign and humans scurry around filling their food and water bowls.
“This is amazing.” Flick’s voice is full of awe. She’s already leaning forward, trying to take it all in through the windshield.
Unexpected pride fills me. “It is pretty awesome.”
I park at the main building, alongside the other guest vehicles—mostly families with small kids here for the weekend petting experience. The gravel crunches under our tires, and Ican already hear Mom’s favorite rooster, Napoleon, announcing our arrival from his perch on the fence post.
I go around the car to help Flick out. She’s still a little sore following the flare, but she was also insistent on getting out of the house after several days of bed rest. I notice the careful way she plants her feet, the slight hesitation before she puts her full weight on her legs.
“Thank you.” She slips her hand into mine as she gets her footing. Our eyes catch, and I’m sucked into their bottomless depths, a place I could happily drown in.
