Page 8 of We Can Stay
Inside, the house is exactly as I left it this morning. Clean, organized, empty. No pets of my own—ironic for a vet, but when you’re never home, it doesn’t seem fair. No plants—see: disaster garden. No signs of life except for the stack of veterinary journals on the coffee table and the surgery textbooks I keep meaning to read.
I reheat leftover Chinese food and eat standing at the kitchen counter, scrolling through my phone. There’s a text from my brother asking if I want to grab beer this weekend—declined, I have emergency clinic Saturday and Sunday. An email from a pharmaceutical rep about a new heartworm medication. Areminder about the veterinary conference next month that I should attend but probably won’t.
Nothing from Flick.
Not that I expected anything. We’re not... anything. Just a vet and a client who found a kitten.
A client who called me hot.
I grin despite myself, then catch my reflection in the microwave door. When did I start looking so tired? So worn down? When did the job I love become the only thing in my life?
When Jessica left,my brain supplies helpfully. When I proved that I couldn’t balance a relationship and a career. When I decided it was easier to just focus on what I was good at—fixing animals—and forget about the rest.
But tomorrow, for the first time in longer than I can remember, I have something to look forward to that isn’t work-related.
I fall asleep on the couch, still in my scrubs, Gerald’s antics playing on repeat in my mind. But it’s not the ferret I dream about.
It’s hazel eyes and the way Flick said “See you tomorrow” like it was a promise.
CHAPTER 3
Flick
“You stay here. Got it?”
The kitten blinks up at me with her big blue eyes. “Me-ooh.”
“Play with your toys.” I pick up one of the crinkly, sparkly balls that were in the bag Sebastian gave me and toss it deeper into my bedroom. She chases after it, and I take the opportunity to close the door and hurry away.
I feel a little bad leaving her in the bedroom all by herself, but I have a new dye order to finish, and she’ll just be in the way if I keep her with me in the kitchen. As I walk down the staircase, though, she starts meowing loudly.
So, I walk faster. Even though there’s guilt winding through me and I’m half considering taking my cat and?—
No. She’s not my cat. She’s a cat. I’m only temporarily keeping her. Though it was pretty nice having her sleep on my bed last night. Her little purring noise was surprisingly soothing.
I had made her a spot in the corner of the room in her own little bed, but I guess she was lonely or scared, because she kept climbing the comforter onto my bed. By the third time, I gave up and let her stay. She snuggled in and made her own little bed next to me and went right to sleep.
The way she curled up, trusting and vulnerable, reminded me of something I can’t quite place. Maybe it’s just been too long since I’ve let anyone get that close. Five years, to be exact. Five years since David proved that trust was just another word for stupid.
I didn’t get as much done yesterday as I would have liked. Between the unexpected vet visit and the kitten interrupting my day, I got a little behind. I felt guilty just bringing Cat home and dumping her in a new place. I was also worried about everything she could get into, so I had to spend some time moving stuff around to make it more pet-friendly.
My phone buzzes as I reach the kitchen. Another notification from my Twitch channel. I’ve been getting more followers lately, which should make me happy. This one, though—@WatchingYouCraft—joined at 2:47 AM and has already liked every video from the past two months. My stomach does a little flip. Probably just an insomniac crafter. We’re a common breed.
Shaking my head, I get to work dyeing. I’ve had an uptick in orders lately, mostly through my Etsy storefront, and even though I’ve been working every day, I have nothing to complain about. It’s not the dream job I envisioned while growing up—designing video games—it’s even better.
Supplies arranged and wool ready to go, I lower the first skein into the cotton-candy pink bath, watching the white wool transform. There’s something meditative about the way color bleeds into fiber, how something plain becomes extraordinary with patience and the right touch.
It’s kind of crazy. Five years ago, working for a storytelling app in New York City, I never would have imagined moving to a sleepy island in Maine and spending my days dyeing yarn in my condo.
But then I walked into that yarn shop in Chelsea, and everything changed. When I met a yarn dyer for the first time, itwas like something finally clicked. I saw my destiny laid out in front of me, a colorful road paved with wool and acrylic.
That day feels like a lifetime ago. I’d just discovered David with Melissa from accounting, their guilty faces burned into my memory. The yarn shop had been my escape route, a random turn to avoid going back to our apartment. Funny how the worst day of my life led me to my passion.
Yes, it’s a road made from textiles, which might seem insignificant to lots of people. For me, though, it’s my purpose. The thing that brings me calm and peace in the middle of the storm, in the middle of the uncertainty.
And boy, have I had a lot of uncertainty the last five years.
My hands already ache from the cold water, that familiar burn in my knuckles that’s been my constant companion. I rotate the skein, ensuring even coverage, trying to ignore how stiff my fingers feel. The YouTube comments on my last video mentioned how “graceful” my hands looked. If they only knew the price of that grace.
