Chapter 8
The next few weeks are amazing.
Sex with Jared when he was a hookup was spectacular. But this, sex with Jared when he’s my best friend, is out of this fucking world.
There’s just so much like between us. I think that must be the element that makes it so different.
When someone genuinely enjoys your company with clothes on, it apparently makes the clothes-off part spectacular.
Laughing and teasing are now included in the hotness.
And we’ve developed our own ridiculous code words for things like calling lube “friendship enhancer” and making each other crack up at the worst possible moments.
We have competitions to see who can keep a straight face while the other person does their worst sexy voice, which usually ends with me doing a terrible Batman impression while naked and Jared almost crying with laughter.
We now know each other well enough that he can tell when I need soft and slow versus when I need to forget my own name.
I’m trying not to let my epic sex life distract me too much from focusing on my placement because it’s the lead-up to crunch week, when the vet clinic owner is going to be on-site.
Jared’s instituted a rule where I have to study before we fool around, which is the best motivator for studying ever invented.
We’ll often cook dinner together at my place so Patches has company, and afterward, we’ll sit at the table together while he does his paperwork and I learn the correct way to identify different types of parasites in fecal samples, which is exactly as glamorous as it sounds.
Although, half the time, it descends into funny jokes between us about the differences in animal and human anatomy.
We spend twenty minutes debating whether having a cloaca like birds would be more or less convenient than the human setup.
“One hole for everything seems efficient,” I argue, and Jared looks genuinely disturbed.
“That’s where you’re wrong. Separation of church and state, Felix. Some things need their own dedicated exits.”
Or when I mention that male cats have backward-facing spines on their penises, Jared actually puts his hands over his crotch like he’s protecting himself from the very concept.
“Evolution really said fuck you to female cats,” he says, and I can’t disagree.
Then there’s the fact that horses can’t vomit, which leads to a whole discussion about whether that’s better or worse than humans who can’t stop vomiting after too many shots.
So I’m feeling fairly confident that I’m doing everything I can to be ready to impress the big boss next week.
But halfway through Friday, I’m not feeling quite so confident anymore, mostly because my head feels like someone’s using it as a drum kit and my throat has decided to audition for the role of sandpaper.
“Are you okay, Felix?” Melissa asks as we’re finishing restraining Mrs. Patterson’s ancient dachshund for his arthritis injection. “You don’t look so good.”
“That’s just my face. I can’t change it,” I reply.
Melissa rolls her eyes. “I mean, you look like you’re not feeling well.”
“I’m sure it’s just allergies.”
She gives me a stern look. “Go home, Felix. Get some rest. It’s a big week next week.”
My body is aching as I get into my car.
Dammit. I don’t want to be sick right before the most important week of my placement. But even more than that, I don’t want to miss all the fun times I planned with Jared this weekend.
But by the time I get home, my skin is feeling too tight and too cold at the same time, so I concede defeat and message Jared.
Sorry, no fun times tonight. I’m not feeling well.
What’s wrong?
Based on how I’m feeling, I’m pretty sure it’s something very serious like Ebola or dysentery.
Half an hour later, I’ve made myself a bed on the couch in front of the TV, Patches snuggled up with me, when there’s a knock on my door.
“Come in,” I call miserably.
I know it’s Jared, and I gave him a key a few weeks ago so he can check on Patches when I’m at the vet clinic.
Sure enough, Jared enters, balancing a pot in one hand and a grocery bag in the other like he’s been shopping for the apocalypse. After depositing everything on the counter, he crosses to me in three strides, staring down at me with concern.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m dying here,” I moan.
“I’m fairly sure it’s just the flu,” he says as he presses his hand against my forehead.
“My whole body is aching, and my head feels like it’s going to explode.”
“Once again, common symptoms of the flu.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s what they said about the Black Death. ‘Oh, it’s just a little plague. You’ll be fine.’”
Jared rocks back on his heels. “I made you something.”
“Brownies?” I say hopefully, perking up slightly.
“Soup,” he replies.
I slump back down against my pillows. “Soup isn’t as fun as brownies.”
“Soup is much better for you than brownies,” he says in a stern voice.
“Ooh, I quite like it when you play nasty doctor,” I say. “Did you bring home your stethoscope? You can examine me anywhere.”
He laughs his deep laugh.
That’s all I need. The sound of his laughter. They do say laughter is the best medicine, after all.
There’s a chance I’m slightly delirious right now.
He adjusts the pillows behind my back like he’s auditioning for a nursemaid of the year award.
And for a second, the memory slips in of the aftermath of my accident, where Carlos pretended to be supportive by posting caring boyfriend photos on Instagram while privately telling me I was being too dramatic.
He’d bring me water when I asked, but he would leave it just out of reach, saying I needed to push myself. When I cried from the pain one night, he slept on the couch because my whimpering was “disrupting his REM cycles.”
The worst part was how he made me feel that I should be extremely grateful that he was staying with me.
He only lasted a month before he dumped me on New Year’s Day, telling me that being with me wasn’t fun anymore.
Jared isn’t Carlos, I remind myself. No. Carlos was my boyfriend I lived with. Jared is just my friend I hook up with.
Yet my friend with benefits is currently bustling around my kitchen to prepare me a bowl of chicken soup.
Then he gets out his ear thermometer, checks my temperature with a frown, and proceeds to give me two paracetamol tablets to swallow with a glass of water.
After I’ve had a few mouthfuls of the soup and have settled back on my couch bed, Jared disappears into my bathroom and then reemerges with a washcloth folded into a cold compress. He gently places it on my forehead, just like my mum used to do when I was little.
He smooths the washcloth against my forehead with those paramedic hands that probably do this for strangers all the time.
Except I’m not a stranger. I’m the guy he’s sleeping with who’s too much of a coward to ask for more, and now I’m adding pathetic sick person to my list of attractive qualities.
Right up there with scarred and emotionally damaged.
But he’s looking at me with this soft expression that makes me want to say stupid things like “please don’t leave,” “I think I’m falling in love with you,” and “why are you so nice to me when I look like this?”
Instead, I close my eyes and let myself pretend, just for today, that this is real.
I doze off secure in the knowledge that Jared will be here when I wake up.
The weekend blurs together in a fever dream of soup, terrible daytime TV, and Jared’s cool hands against my forehead. He brings me more groceries and even cleans Patches’ litter box without being asked, which might be the most romantic thing anyone’s ever done for me.
He has to babysit Emmy for Sophie on Saturday afternoon, but he comes back with a get-well-soon card from Emmy, complete with a drawing of what might be me or possibly a sick giraffe, it’s hard to tell, and approximately thirteen glitter stickers of unicorns because, apparently, unicorns cure the flu.
Despite Jared’s best care, I have to take Monday off work.
Which involves me lying on the couch, stressing that the other vet nurse students are impressing the clinic owner.
But by Tuesday, I’m raring to go again.
Well, with a slight cough that one could potentially describe as hacking.
“I still don’t know if you’re well enough to go to work.” Jared frowns at me. He’s just come back from his overnight shift and has come to check in on me before he heads to bed.
“The vet clinic owner is only there for two more days. I need to make sure I’m there to impress her,” I say as I straighten my shirt.
Jared looks uncertain. “Just take it easy, okay?”
“Okay.”
But when I get to work, there’s no chance to take it easy. The moment I walk in, Aroha grabs my arm.
“Thank god you’re here. Mr. Whitman’s Saint Bernard ate his wife’s engagement ring and needs an emergency endoscopy. Can you help get him ready?”
I shuffle toward the operating room. Unfortunately, the Saint Bernard—whose name is Bruce—is doing that thing where dogs suddenly develop the ability to triple their body weight when they don’t want to move.
“Come on, buddy.” I manage to wrestle his front half onto the table when his whole body does that unmistakable rolling motion. That pre-vomit wave that every pet owner knows means you have about two seconds to grab a towel.
“Oh shit, not yet—”
But Bruce is already going for it. He heaves, and out comes the ring in a puddle of bile, along with what looks like maybe an earring. This dog has expensive taste in snacks.
I drop to my knees to grab the jewelry before it rolls away, and Bruce decides to do that full-body head shake that Saint Bernards have perfected.
A rope of drool catches me directly across the face.
The shock of it triggers my stupid cough, which sounds like I’m trying to hack up my own lung, which apparently offends Bruce because he jumps off the table.
Right onto my back.
So now I’m face-down next to a puddle of dog vomit, with a one-hundred-and-fifty-pound dog standing on me like I’m a really uncomfortable yoga mat, and Mrs. Whitman’s engagement ring is somewhere under my left shoulder.
The door opens. I crane my neck to see Aroha’s sensible clogs next to a pair of designer heels. Valentino, if I’m not mistaken. Last autumn’s collection.
“Ms. Evans, this is Felix, one of our trainees,” Aroha says in a professionally neutral tone.
“Felix, this is the owner of the vet clinic, Ms. Evans.”
Of course this is the moment when I meet the woman I’m desperate to impress.
“Nice to meet you,” I wheeze as I look up.
But it isn’t horror or disgust on the face of the mid-fifties woman who stares down at me.
Instead, it’s recognition.
“Felix,” she exclaims.
It takes me a moment to place her.
It’s Deborah, my favorite client from when I worked for Giselle.
“Oh my god, Deborah,” I say as I straighten, managing to extract myself from the Saint Bernard and getting to my feet gingerly. Bruce immediately tries to make another break for it, but Aroha smoothly catches his collar and clips on a lead.
Deborah’s gaze flicks to my scars for a moment, but then back to my eyes, her expression not wavering.
“It’s so wonderful to see you. I heard from Giselle that you’d had a car accident.”
“Ah…yeah,” I say. “A little over a year ago now.”
I’m trying to get my head around the fact that the big, scary owner of the six vet clinics is Deborah.
Deborah, who didn’t realize pink and red clashed.
Deborah, who once bought an identical black dress to one she already owned by accident, and I had to start keeping a photo album of her wardrobe on my phone.
“And now you’re training to be a vet nurse?” she says.
“Yes, I am.”
“He’s been great so far,” Aroha says.
“Oh, I have no doubt about that. Anyone who can teach me how to accessorize properly can handle anything.” Deborah gives me a warm smile.
“I also believe you spent forty minutes explaining to me why I couldn’t wear brown shoes with a black belt, even if they were both Hermès, without once losing your temper.
If that’s not a qualification for dealing with difficult animals, I don’t know what is. ”
I laugh at the memory, and she joins in with me.
“Seriously, it’s so great to see you, and great that you’re doing okay now.” Her grin doesn’t fade. “I’m not sure if you know that I own a few vet clinics besides this one. If you want a placement anywhere, just let me know. You can have the pick of whatever clinic you want.”
I blink at her in disbelief. And something inside of me that I didn’t realize was clenched loosens.
“Oh wow, thank you.”
“It’s the least I can do to repay you for everything you did for me.” She gives me another bright smile.
“I didn’t do much.”
“Sure you did. I still have that Versace dress you convinced me to buy,” she says. “The one you said would make my ex-husband realize what he was losing.”
“The black one with the cutouts? That dress was made for you.”
“You were right. He tried to get back together the night I wore it to the charity gala.” She grins. “I told him I had a date. I didn’t mention the date was with a bottle of wine and Netflix.”
“The best kind of date, honestly.”
“You always knew exactly what I needed, even when I didn’t. Especially that time I came in crying after I received my divorce papers.”
“You needed revenge shopping. It’s a sacred therapeutic practice,” I say.
She laughs.
I look around at the disaster of a room. “I guess I’d better get this cleaned up.”
“Vomit waits for no man,” she says with a smile. “I look forward to seeing you again soon.”
Aroha has a startled expression as she follows Deborah out of the room.
I clean up in a daze.
When I finally stumble into the breakroom, reeking of bleach, the first thing I do is grab my phone.
You will not believe what just happened to me!
I know Jared’s probably asleep because he just came off night shift, but he’s still the first person I want to tell.
Because Deborah just offered me any placement I wanted. Not out of pity, but like she was acquiring talent. Like I was a good investment even when I was covered in Saint Bernard vomit and drool.
Giselle might have decided I was worthless without my looks, but Deborah just proved that the people who actually matter never cared about the surface. They never actually thought my face was the most important thing about me.
Maybe it just took losing it for me to figure that out.