Page 88 of We Can Stay
“Mrreeeow.”
Barney comes to my office doorway, orange tail shaking with happiness. Walking past me, he jumps into the windowsill where his food bowl waits.
The crunching of kibble fills the room, the only sound aside from my pounding heart. Everything is in place for the sanctuary. The donors came through; the money has all been moved into one account.
I should call Lil. Wire the money. Sign the papers. Make this dream real.
My finger hovers over her contact. One tap. That’s all it would take.
But my hand won’t move.
Because somewhere between meeting Flick and losing her, the dream shifted. Became less about the sanctuary and more about building something with her. Showing her the plans over breakfast. Watching her face light up when I described the cattery design. Her suggestion about a sensory garden for the animals—“Lavender and catnip and those grasses cats love to nibble.”
The weight of it crashes over me, and I sink into my desk chair. The leather creaks under my weight, a sound that’sbecome too familiar these past years. How many hours have I spent in this chair? How many things have I let pass me by?
“I use work as an excuse to avoid feeling things,” I say to Barney.
He pauses mid-crunch to give me a look that clearly saysNo kidding, genius.
My brother’s words echo in my skull. “You’re drowning, Sebastian. Using work like armor.”
He’s right. God help me, he’s been right all along.
The sanctuary isn’t my dream anymore. It’s my escape route. Another project to bury myself in, another excuse to work eighteen-hour days. Another way to avoid the crushing loneliness of that empty house.
Another way to avoid being hurt again.
Because that’s what this is really about, isn’t it? Jessica left because I couldn’t fix her depression. Couldn’t be enough. And when Flick came along, I did the same damn thing—tried to manage her life, fix her problems, be the solution instead of just... being there.
My phone buzzes again. This time it’s my brother.
Haven’t heard from you. You okay?
I stare at the screen until the words blur. When did I become this person? This ghost who moves through life checking off tasks, filling every moment with obligations to avoid feeling anything real?
When Jessica asked for the divorce. That’s when.
“I love you, but I’m drowning,” she’d said, her wedding ring already on the kitchen table between us. “And you keep trying to throw me life preservers when what I need is someone to just sit with me in the water.”
I’d failed her. Failed at the one thing that should have mattered most. So I threw myself into work, into the practice, into the emergency clinic. Built walls of busyness so high I couldn’t see over them.
Until Flick.
Flick, who saw through every defense. Who made me want to slow down, to savor morning coffee, to waste entire afternoons untangling yarn. Who showed me what I’d been missing while I was so busy staying busy.
And I’d ruined it the same way I ruined things with Jessica. By trying to fix instead of just being.
My chest tightens, but this time it’s not from panic. It’s from clarity. Sharp and painful and absolutely necessary.
I don’t want the sanctuary. Not really. Not anymore.
What I want is a life. A real one. With actual dinners at normal hours and weekends that don’t involve emergencies. With time to read those veterinary journals for interest, not obligation. With space to figure out who Sebastian Blum is when he’s not drowning in work.
With Flick, if she’ll have me. If I haven’t destroyed everything with my need to manage and fix and control.
The wall clock ticks steadily. 7:14 now. The Chronic Pain Crafters meet on Wednesdays. Flick mentioned it once, how the routine helped her feel grounded. How those women understood things about her life that others couldn’t.
She’ll be there. Right now. Only a short distance away.
