Chapter 5
The cat’s vein slips under my fingers like it’s determined to make my life difficult.
“Come on, Princess Whiskers,” I mutter, adjusting my grip on her leg while Aroha, the senior vet nurse, monitors the anesthesia.
I readjust my grip and feel for the cephalic vein again. There. The catheter slides in on the first try, and I get that little rush of victory that comes with not screwing something up.
“Nice one,” Aroha says, and I try not to preen too obviously as I secure the catheter with tape and attach the fluid line.
The thing is, I need to nail every procedure for the next few weeks. The owner of this clinic, along with five others across Auckland, is visiting next month. And according to the clinic gossip network, she pays close attention to what the staff says about their trainees.
I really want a guaranteed placement at one of the vet clinics next year. Six months ago, I would have been happy to go to any good clinic, no matter where it was. But now, the idea of leaving Auckland makes my chest go tight.
Leaving Auckland means leaving Jared. And that’s not an idea I want to contemplate.
Jared and I spend every spare moment we have together.
Maybe it’s because of the unusual circumstances of how we met, but we seem to have a rapport I’ve never had with anyone.
It turns out we both have an addiction to not only Getting the Goons, but also reality TV shows like Dog Rehoming and Surf Lifesaving, which triggered a discussion where we discovered that our ideal futures are scarily similar: a lifestyle block, preferably near the ocean, with lots of animals.
Over the past month, I’ve continued to make it my mission to inject some fun into Jared’s ridiculously responsible life.
Last week, I convinced him that what he really needed at eleven p.m. on a Tuesday was to learn how to make cocktails.
We got through three YouTube tutorials and half a bottle of vodka before creating something that tasted like the offspring from a misguided relationship between cough syrup and a lemon.
The week before that, I taught him how to play Mario Kart, which revealed that underneath his calm paramedic exterior, Jared has the competitive spirit of a honey badger.
Unfortunately for Jared, I’ve been playing since I was twelve, and I proceeded to knock him off the track six races in a row while cackling like a cartoon villain.
“You’re a monster,” he’d said.
“You’re just mad because Yoshi is superior to Donkey Kong in every way.”
“Take that back.”
“Never.”
We’d ended up wrestling for the controller, which had led to us collapsing on the couch, breathing hard and grinning at each other like idiots. For a moment, I’d thought he might kiss me. His eyes had dropped to my lips, and I’d leaned in just slightly.
Then Emmy’s image on his phone screen had lit up with a text from Sophie, and the moment had shattered.
But the best part is how he’s started including me in his Emmy adventures like I’m a permanent fixture.
Last weekend, we took her to Rainbow’s End, where she spent twenty minutes explaining to the carousel operator that the horses needed actual food, not just music.
Then she made us go on the log flume three times because she was convinced the fake crocodile at the bottom was lonely and needed company.
“She gets her empathy from her uncle,” I’d told the ride operator, and Jared had turned this adorable shade of pink.
“Okay, Princess Whiskers, you’re all ready.” I step back.
“You’ve got the touch,” Aroha says, which, from her, is basically the equivalent of a parade in my honor.
I head to the breakroom so I can have lunch while Princess Whiskers is in surgery.
The breakroom smells like someone microwaved fish again.
Which, in my opinion, should be illegal in a vet clinic.
We have to cope with enough questionable smells without voluntarily adding to them.
I pull out the sandwich I made this morning while Patches tried to steal the ham directly from my hands.
Melissa, one of the vet techs, plops down next to me with her salad that always makes me feel bad about my carb-heavy choices.
“Felix,” she says, leaning toward me. “You’re single, right?”
I nearly choke on my sandwich. “That’s a very smooth conversation starter.”
“My brother just moved back from Sydney. He’s a graphic designer, really cute, loves dogs even though he’s allergic, which I think shows character.”
“It definitely shows something.”
“I’m just saying, I could set you guys up. He’s funny and really nice.” She pulls out her phone, already scrolling through photos. “Look, this is him last Christmas.”
The guy in the photo she flashes at me is objectively attractive. Sandy-brown hair, nice smile, the kind of build that suggests he actually uses his gym membership instead of just feeling guilty about it monthly when the direct debit comes out, like I currently do.
“He seems nice,” I say carefully.
“So can I give him your number?”
I should say yes. This is what normal people do. They agree to meet someone’s nice brother and go on dates to restaurants where you can’t pronounce half the menu items.
But all I can think about is Jared’s laugh when I convinced him to do karaoke in his living room last night. How he absolutely murdered “Bohemian Rhapsody” but committed to it so hard that I forgot to sing my parts because I was too busy watching him.
How, when we collapsed on the couch afterward, he said, “I haven’t done anything that stupid in years,” and I’d felt like it was the best compliment anyone had ever given me.
“I’ll think about it,” I tell Melissa.
“He’s really sweet,” she pushes. “And he definitely wouldn’t care about…” She gestures vaguely at my face.
There it is. The thing everyone thinks but rarely says directly. That I should be grateful for anyone who can look past my scars.
Before the accident, I had my pick of any guy. Now my dating pool is limited to people who are “really sweet” and “wouldn’t mind.”
The thing is, I don’t want Melissa’s brother, who potentially won’t mind my face.
I want Jared, who sometimes looks at me like he’s seeing something precious, then immediately looks away like he’s not allowed to want what he sees.
“Thanks,” I say because she means well. “But I’m busy at the moment. I’m just not really looking right now.”
The busy thing is the truth. I’m spending so much time with Jared, and he also somehow got me to agree to try out for his soccer team next week. Because my life isn’t complicated enough without adding “try not to stare at Jared in shorts” to my list of challenges.
But it’s a lie that I’m not looking. I’m looking constantly. I’m just only looking at one person, and he seems determined to keep me firmly in the friend zone, no matter how many times I catch him staring at my mouth when he thinks I won’t notice.
“If you change your mind,” Melissa says, then moves on to complaining about her roster for next week.
I nod and make appropriate sympathetic noises, but my mind is already elsewhere.
Thinking about Jared’s dark eyes and rumbling laughter, about the way Jared’s whole face changes when Emmy runs to greet him.
Thinking about how he remembers that I like my coffee with an embarrassing amount of sugar and has started keeping a special jar of the good stuff just for me.
Thinking about how completely screwed I am because I’m falling for someone who already saved my life. It feels like he’s saving me again, but this time from disappearing into myself. Yet he doesn’t want anything more from me than friendship.
My phone buzzes with a text. Speak of the handsome devil.
Emmy wants to know if you’re free Saturday. She’s insisting we need to go feed the ducks at Western Springs. She’s worried they won’t eat without her.
I can’t help grinning. As an only child, I didn’t have much exposure to younger kids growing up, but I love spending time with Emmy.
She treats me like I’m the most interesting person she’s ever met.
Probably because I’m the only adult she knows who’ll have a serious debate about whether unicorns prefer chocolate or vanilla ice cream.
I’m not sure what it says about me that I appear to have found my match for my sense of humor in a four-year-old.
Sophie still acts weird around me though. I think she’s worried I’m going to monopolize her brother when she needs him for Emmy duty, so I’ve been trying to establish myself as the harmless neighbor who’s basically a free babysitting service disguised as Jared’s friend.
I text Jared back immediately.
Tell her I’ll bring the good food.
I’ve been educating Jared and Emmy that bread is actually not good for ducks, so we’ve been feeding them proper duck pellets I get from work. Emmy’s convinced this makes us duck doctors, and honestly, I’m not correcting her.
Jared’s reply comes through.
Emmy already picked out which ducks are yours to feed.
I stare at the message, at the casual way I’m included in their little family unit. I’ve never been claimed by a four-year-old or had someone assign me specific waterfowl.
“Felix, Princess Whiskers is coming out of surgery,” Aroha calls from the doorway.
“Coming,” I call back, tucking my phone away.
I’ve got a cat to monitor, procedures to perfect, and a job to secure. I need to stop worrying about my love life, or lack of it.
“Is it too late to fake a sudden illness?” I ask as Jared navigates through the traffic. “I’m very good at fake coughing.”
Jared sends me an amused look. “You can’t fake an illness to a paramedic.”
I shift in my seat. “Fine, but when I collapse on the field from my very real case of meeting-new-people-itis, you’ll have to explain to everyone why you ignored the symptoms.”
We’re fifteen minutes from the soccer field and my anxiety ramps up with every mile.