Page 80 of We Can Stay
The retired librarian is always bringing in strays. She’s Pine Island’s unofficial patron saint of stray cats.
“You know it.”
I grab a paper towel, grateful for a straightforward case after a morning filled with mysterious symptoms and referrals to specialists.
The pregnant cat makes me think of Flick’s kitten, which makes me think of Flick. Which makes my chest tighten with something between hope and dread.
I haven’t seen her since her doctor’s appointment yesterday, but she texted that she’s feeling better. I have a surprise reservation at a waterfront restaurant this weekend. I wish I could take the whole weekend off, but the animal sanctuary is moving forward. Another investor came through with funding,and I’m meeting with the property owner tomorrow to discuss renovations.
It’s finally happening.
Everything is falling into place professionally, but Ben’s words about using work as a distraction keep echoing in my head. The sanctuary is important, but am I using it as another excuse to avoid dealing with what’s broken in my life? Once it’s up and running, I tell myself I’ll take a break. Maybe even get away with Flick for a weekend.
Once I get it up and running.Always later. Always after the next project.
“She’s in room three,” Rach says. “And she’s feisty.”
“The cat or Pixie?”
Rach snorts, but I know she remembers when Pixie insisted on giving a cat a vaccination herself because I was “too intimidating for the cat.”
My phone buzzes. A text from Flick makes my heart race—she’s outside, wants to know if I have a minute. The smile that spreads across my face feels foreign after the morning I’ve had.
“Give me five minutes,” I tell Rach, already heading for the door.
Each step quickens my pulse. A surprise visit from Flick could mean anything, but I’m choosing to be optimistic. Maybe she missed me as much as I’ve missed her. The emergency clinic shift tonight means I won’t see her for a few days, so even a quick hello would be?—
She stands on the pavement, hands buried in her windbreaker pockets, shoulders hunched against more than just the breeze. The shadows under her eyes are darker than yesterday, and there’s a brittleness to her posture that makes my stomach drop.
“Hey.” I touch her arms gently, feeling the tension radiating through the fabric. “You okay? How did you sleep?”
“Not well.” She rubs her face, avoiding my gaze.
“Are you heading into another flare?”
“No.” The word comes out sharp, defensive.
Relief washes through me. “That’s good. You know, an ergonomic pillow could really help. The ones on your bed have too much give. And a white noise machine might?—”
“Sebastian.” Her voice cuts through my rambling like a scalpel.
I close my mouth, recognizing the spiral I’m in. Offering solutions because I don’t know how to just sit with someone else’s pain. Because fixing things is all I know how to do anymore.
Fuck, I’m doing it again.
Ben was right. I fill every silence with suggestions, every problem with a ten-step solution, because standing still means feeling everything I’ve been running from since the divorce.
“Sorry.” The word tastes like failure. “I just... I want to help.”
“I know you do.” Her voice softens slightly, but her eyes remain guarded. “That’s the problem.”
My chest constricts. “What do you mean?”
She takes a breath that seems to hurt. “We need to talk.”
The words hit like ice water. Jessica said the exact same thing the night she asked for a divorce. The memory floods back—her tired face across our kitchen table, the resignation in her voice.
I force myself to focus on Flick, even as my hands start to shake. “Okay. Talk to me.”
