3. Rowe
ROWE
Peanut is curled into the hollow of my elbow, and he won't stop shaking.
“I know, buddy. I know.”
The capuchin's small fingers grip the cuff of my henley, his pupils wide.
There's a swelling on the back of his right hand, the skin already purpling where he caught it in the latch of the play structure inside the enclosure.
Pip got spooked when one of the canvas hands dropped a tent pole nearby, and she swung off the rope at the same moment Peanut reached for the bar. His hand was where her foot landed.
A collision. Stupid. Not anyone's fault. Not even Pip's. But his little wrist took the brunt of it, and now he's tucked against me, breathing too fast, while Pip and Squeak flit through the rafters of the tent and chatter at each other like they're laying blame.
“Hey. Hey.” I look up at them. “Quiet.”
Squeak goes still. Pip dives to a lower beam, eyes huge, watching us.
“It's not your fault,” I tell her. She blinks once, then chitters and looks away.
Peanut whimpers when I shift my arm, and I tighten my hold. His fur is warm. His heart kicks against my forearm faster than it should.
The tent flap snaps back.
“Vet's here.”
Logan's voice. He ducks under the canvas, holding the flap open for whoever's behind him, and then she steps in, and I forget what I was about to say.
The first thing I notice is that she's pale. It makes me wonder what Logan said to her.
The second thing is that she's beautiful.
Her dark hair is pulled back in a tight ponytail.
There's a stethoscope on her chest, and a field kit at her hip.
Both chest and hips are curvier than the Smoky Mountains.
Her eyes are a warm brown and sweep the tent once, fast. Her mouth is set in a line that tells me she walked through that flap looking for neglect.
Something in my chest tightens.
“Rowe Holloway,” Logan says. “And this is Dr.—”
“Wren.” She steps forward, her eyes already on Peanut. “Just Wren is fine.”
“Peanut,” I say. “His name's Peanut.”
She crouches a few feet away, setting the kit down. “What happened?”
“It was an accident. Pip got startled, came down on his hand.”
Her eyes flick up to mine. “Pip.”
“The female capuchin. She's up there.” I tip my chin toward the rafters. “He's been with us about eight months. Came out of a Tennessee bust last fall.”
“Mm.”
That sound. I know that sound. It's the one people make when they're not arguing yet, but they're taking notes, keeping score.
She unzips the kit. “How long ago did the injury happen?”
“Thirty minutes. Maybe less.”
“And he's been held since?”
“He won't let anyone else touch him right now.”
Her eyes lift again, and this time they linger a beat longer. “That's a lot of trust for an animal that's been with you eight months.”
“He's a good monkey.”
“Mm,” she says again.
Logan makes a small sound near the door. I don't look at him. I keep my eyes on her, on the way her fingers move over the latches of her kit with the swiftness of someone who's done it a thousand times.
“You want to tell me what you're actually asking?” My voice comes out flatter than I mean it to.
She doesn't flinch. Just pulls out a stethoscope tip and warms it between her palms. “I'm asking how a primate from a busted exotic operation ended up in a traveling show.”
“Because the alternative was a county shelter that euthanizes anything they can't place in seventy-two hours.”
“There are sanctuaries—”
“That were full,” I interrupt. “I called.”
A pause. Her hands keep moving, but her eyes are on me. “You called sanctuaries.”
“I called eleven of them. Two said they'd take him if I could wait six months. The rest had nothing. So he came here, and he lives in a heated trailer with two other capuchins he gets along with, and he eats better than I do.” I shift Peanut against me.
“If you'd like to inspect the records, my brother keeps them digital. He can email you the file before you finish examining the patient.”
A muscle moves in her jaw. She doesn't answer. Just rises from her crouch and steps closer.
Too close.
She reaches for Peanut, and her forearm brushes mine, and I jerk back like she shocked me.
Peanut squeaks. Pip chatters above us. Wren's hand stops mid-air, her eyes going wide, and then color floods her cheeks all the way to her hairline.
She steps back, quickly. Her shoulders draw in.
“Sorry. I'm sorry, I should have—”
“It's not you.”
“It's fine, I—”
“It's not you,” I say again, more forcefully.
She blinks, and her hand goes to the hem of her jacket, tugging it down over her wide hips, and that’s when I realize what she's doing. What she thinks is happening.
Christ. She thinks I’m disgusted by her.
“Doc—Wren.” Her name comes out rougher than I planned. “It's not you. I don't—” I exhale through my nose. “I don't do well with being touched. By anyone. It's not personal.”
The blush doesn't leave her face, but she nods once. “Okay.”
“Okay,” I echo.
“Can I—” she gestures to Peanut. “I need to listen to his chest. If you can hold him still for me, I won't have to come closer than this.”
“Yeah.”
I cradle Peanut and turn so his side is to her. Wren moves with care now, every motion telegraphed. She slides the stethoscope between his arm and his ribs, and Peanut goes still against me, his little fingers loosening their grip on my cuff.
She listens. Her brow furrows, then it smooths.
“Heart rate's elevated but steady. Good lung sounds.” Her voice has gentled. “Let me see the hand.”
I turn Peanut a fraction more. She takes a penlight out of her pocket and clicks it on, and I watch her work.
The way her fingers settle around his small wrist without squeezing.
The way she talks to him under her breath in a register so different from the one she used on me that it's almost a different language. Calling him a good boy. Saying he’s alright and she’ll take care of him.
Something in my sternum cracks.
I look at her hands: the short, clean nails, the faint scar across one knuckle. The way her thumb strokes the fur over Peanut's wrist while she palpates the bone.
She loves her work. The animals. She walked in here ready to find something to hate, and she's still doing the job with a softness I've never really experienced before. Not from anyone working at the carnival.
I wasn't ready for it.
Damn it… I've never yearned before. Not like this. Not for a specific person, with a specific face.
My brothers have fucked in front of me for years.
Cole with the women who like his knives, Jonah with the ones who like his size, Elias with whoever caught his eye for a night, before Jules, though they’ve let me see them a couple of times too.
I watched, and I got what I needed from watching.
I've never, not once, pictured my hands in their place.
Pictured my mouth on them, my cock inside them. My skin against another person's.
I'm picturing it now.
I'm picturing her short nails digging into my back, and her low voice in my ear telling me I'm alright with the same tone she's using on Peanut.
Bile rises in my throat. I push it down—barely.
“It's not broken.” Her voice pulls me back.
“There's significant soft tissue swelling and probably a bone bruise.
He'll favor it for a week or two. I'm going to give him an anti-inflammatory and come back to give him more over the next five days.” She glances up at me.
“Cold compresses, ten minutes at a time, three times a day if he'll tolerate it. He probably won't.”
“He will if I do it,” I insist.
“Of course he will,” she drawls.
The dryness in her voice surprises me. I almost smile. I don't.
“Are you always this generous?” I ask instead. “Or only when you've been proven wrong?”
Her eyes flash. So, she does have a backbone.
“I haven't been proven wrong yet, Mr. Holloway.”
“Rowe.”
“I haven't been proven wrong yet, Rowe. I've seen one monkey and one tent. The rest of your operation is still very much under review.”
“You're welcome to look.”
She sniffs. “I plan to.”
“Good.”
She stares at me. I stare back. Behind her, Logan makes a sound that I'm going to kill him for later.
She looks away first. Pulls a syringe from her kit, draws up the injection, and administers it into the muscle of Peanut's thigh. Peanut barely notices. He's still tucked into the warm hollow of my arm, his eyelids heavy.
“He's going to sleep,” she says, capping the syringe. “Keep him warm. Watch him for the next hour or so. If the swelling gets worse, or if he stops using the hand entirely, call me. I'll leave my direct number.”
I clear my throat. “Thank you.”
The words still come out scratchy. She glances at me, surprised, and I see her swallow whatever she was about to say.
“You're welcome.”
She rises and zips her kit. Pip drops from the rafters to a lower beam, watching her with her usual wary interest. Squeak follows. Wren looks up at them, her face going soft, and I have to look away.
“They live with him?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
“They're worried,” she says like it isn't obvious.
“I know.”
“He'll be fine. Tell them.”
I huff a small sound, almost a laugh. She’s fucking adorable. “I'll pass it on.”
Wren nods. Picks up her kit. Walks toward the tent flap. Stops. Doesn't turn around.
“The other animals.” Her voice is careful. “Can I see them before I go?”
I blink at the back of her head. “Yes.”
She nods again, still not turning, and pushes through the flap into the evening light.
Logan waits until she's out of earshot. Then he leans against the tent pole and crosses his arms.
“Well,” he says.
“Don't.”
“I wasn't going to say anything.”
“Yes, you were.”
“I really wasn't.”
I look down at Peanut, his small body finally still, his breath evening into sleep against my chest. I look at the tent flap she walked through.
My pulse is loud in my ears.
“Logan.”
“Yeah?”
“I'm not joining you if you find a woman tonight.”
A long pause.
“Alright, brother.”
I don't look at him. But I can tell he’s smiling anyway.