Page 114 of Unravel Me

“And Ollie,” Carter adds with the pump of his brows. “She wanted me from the beginning, but she pretended she didn’t—”

“Carter.”

“Fine,” he grumbles, crossing his arms. “But it was relevant.”

Mom hugs me from behind, kissing my temple. “I’m proud of you, honey. I want you to be proud of you too.” She brushes one of Ireland’s curls from her forehead. “Jesus, Carter, I can’t believe you had a hand in making anything so beautiful and pure. Thank God for your incredible wife.” She straightens, patting my shoulder. “Garrett, I’ve got a box of snacks for you out in the—”

“Say less,” he says, breathless as he dashes down the hallway.

It’s amazing how, just like that, my worries begin to fade. I guess that’s what family is for, though: to lift you up when you’ve fallen so hard you can’t see your way out. Even the hardest things feel more manageable with my family surrounding me.

So as we spend the rest of the evening soaking up the last of summer on the patio, drinking beer and eating barbecue, I feel content. For the first time in two weeks, I fall asleep peacefully, and when I wake in the morning with sunshine streaming across my face, I’m optimistic.

The time on my phone tells me it’s after nine, which is probably why Bear isn’t in bed. If I haven’t fed him by seven, I can find him waiting at his bowl in the kitchen, acting like I’ve starved him for days.

I wander downstairs, the smell of my mom’s French toast wafting from the kitchen, making my stomach rumble. I drop a kiss to her cheek, stealing a piece of bacon from the platter.

“Morning, honey. I tried to feed Bear, but he wasn’t interested.” She gestures at the yard. “He’s lounging out back in the sun. Seems like he’s moving a bit slow today.”

“Thanks, Mom.” I head out back with his bowl, whistling for him. His head pops up from where he’s curled up beneath the shade of an oak, but he doesn’t move except for the excited whip of his tail as I approach. “What’s up, bud?” I set his bowl down in front of him, ruffling his floppy ears and kissing the spot between his eyes. He lays his head back down, and I frown, running my palm over his belly. It’s hard to tell beneath all the fur, but it feels swollen, bloated almost. “You got a belly ache, big guy?”

Huge brown eyes stare up at me as his tail slows to a happy, steady thump on the grass, but he makes no move to eat his breakfast.

“Grandma’s making bacon,” I try, and that steady thump turns frantic before he climbs to his feet. “’Atta boy. C’mon, big guy. It’s the good stuff, double smoked and maple flavored.”

He jogs ahead of me, a happy skip to his step before he stops suddenly. His eyes come to mine over his shoulder, and for a moment I think he’s waiting for me to catch up.

Until all one-hundred-and-forty pounds of him collapses on the patio.

CHAPTER27

HOW MANY FUCKING SHOES ARE THERE?

ROSIE

Clarity hasa funny way of making you feel like you’ve been tied to a bundle of helium balloons, floating above the skies with the sharpest view of your world, where all the answers lie before you like an open book. The type of clarity that comes with pausing, taking the time to reflect on your priorities so you can choose your future with certainty.

Connor is my everything. He’s my past, my present, and my future. But Adam, he’sourfuture. That’s the type of knowledge clarity has brought me, had me GooglingVancouver Vipers training camp dates, andVancouver Vipers preseason game schedulelast night. Google told me he leaves tomorrow for his first preseason game in Edmonton, so if I want to talk to him—and I do—it has to be today.

That has to be why I’ve been floating through my morning emergency rotation with a smile on my face, not an ounce of tension in my shoulders.

All right, I have to credit the extra shot of espresso I added to my iced vanilla latte this morning. And okay, it also helps that the emergencies have been nonexistent so far. We’ve spent the morning looking at old X-rays and their corresponding clinical notes and telling Dr. Holmes what we think was going on with the animals. I’ve nailed all of them so far, so I float a little higher as I head to reception to file the records away.

“It’s hard to believe after days like Friday,” Dr. Holmes says, “but we do have good days around here. Enjoy them when they come.”

My mind wanders back to a warm summer night when I crept out the front door, determined to triple-check on the baby bunny we’d returned to its empty nest in the park, to make sure its mom really did come back. My dad caught me at the end of the driveway, and we walked over together. That was the first time I told him I wanted to be a vet like him, and he told me the same thing Dr. Holmes did: that despite all the hard days, where all I’d do was cry and want to quit, there would be so many good days too.

The good days weren’t always the easy days, he’d said. And he was right. Sometimes, they were the days you felt like you were hanging by a thread, where you wondered why you chose something that could be so painful, only to watch a furry friend open its eyes when you weren’t sure they’d open again, when the arms of their human came around you without warning, hugging you so tight as they thanked you.

The days where you can look back and know you made a difference, he’d said.Those are the days that make it all worth it.

I know the days will be hard. I want to be someone who takes the pain of somebody’s hardest day and makes it a little easier to carry.

An engine roars close by, followed by the squeal of tires in the parking lot. Murmured chatter erupts around me as my colleagues gather by the front windows to watch our first emergency unfold.

“Sorry to cut our easy day short, everyone,” Dr. Holmes says. Her eyes come to mine. “Ready?”

I nod, pulling my stethoscope from my pocket, hanging it around my neck. My legs carry me quickly toward the doors, and I nearly trip over my feet when a dark blue pickup truck skids to a stop out front. When the passenger door opens, my heart stops.

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