CHAPTER 6—DAMIAN
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@SwansCoveShelter: Urgent! We need volunteers and supplies ASAP. Neighboring shelter crisis means we're taking in extra animals. #ShelterEmergency #DearSantaWithLove
I RUB MY EYES, GRITTY from spending the night at the shelter. The cot in the back room isn't exactly five-star accommodation, but it beats walking home just to turn around and come back.
"Alright, let's clear out those damn meeting rooms. We need space for more crates," I bark, my voice rougher than usual.
Volunteers scurry around like elves in Santa's workshop, minus the jolly bullshit. We've already turned two offices into makeshift kennels, but it's like trying to stuff a Great Dane into a Chihuahua's crate.
The air reeks of wet dog and anxiety. Barks and meows create a cacophony that would put those annoying Christmas carolers to shame. The tacky decorations someone insisted on putting up are now buried under stacks of dog food and cat litter. At least that's one silver lining in this mess.
I'm about to yell for Carlos when a familiar voice cuts through the chaos.
"I've got three local vets willing to take in some animals, and I've started a list of potential fosters."
I turn to see Maddie barging in, juggling her phone and a stack of papers like she's about to pitch a blockbuster movie. Behind her, Ava's grandparents are bringing coffee and food and setting up everything in the community room.
"Thanks," I tell them and Aisling's mom smiles.
"It's all Maddie."
Of course, it is. But my neighbor doesn't make a fuss about it. She doesn't even mention it. She's all business attire and determination, but something's off.
"How's your ankle?" The question's out before I can stop it. She's not limping, but those sensible flats are a far cry from her usual heels—the ones I had around my neck on Halloween. And since when do I catalog her footwear?
"Fine," she clips out.
"This isn't a good time for an interview," I growl, more reflex than anything. Then because I realize how that can come out and because I was a dick yesterday, I add, "Thanks for your messages yesterday. They helped." I watch her reaction, her eyes widening slightly, then narrowing with determination. She's here to get her hands dirty, not just scribble notes. "I'm not here for an interview. I'm here to help—unless you've already solved the crisis?"
Before I can respond, she's rattling off more ideas. "Oh, and that empty apartment in our building? I checked the codes. And yes, that might be taking too long, but this might be a solution if it ever happens again."
I blink, my sleep-deprived brain struggling to keep up as she keeps talking. This isn't the reaction I expected after last night. And damn if her ideas aren't good.
As I'm helping Maddie organize supplies, my eyes catch on a crate in the corner. Inside, Prancer with his scarred muzzle cowers, eyes wary. For a second, I'm not in the shelter anymore, but back in that crappy neighborhood, sneaking scraps to the mangy dog who became my first dog. Seeing this old guy now... It's an uppercut to the throat, dredging up memories I've tried to bury. That old dog and my grumpy old cat were the only friends I had; the only ones who didn't see me as broken. But I can't afford to slip into the past now—not with so many animals depending on me. I shove the memory down, focusing on the here and now. These animals need me sharp, not haunted by ghosts.
"Damian?" Maddie's voice snaps me back. "You okay?"
I grunt, shaking off the memory. "Fine."
She tilts her head, curiosity clear in her eyes. I can practically see the questions forming.
"It's nothing," I mutter, turning back to the task at hand. "Just... reminded me of something. From before."
"Before what?" she asks, voice careful like she's approaching a spooked animal.
My jaw clenches. "Before everything." I grab another bag of dog food, effectively ending the conversation. "Come on, these animals need us focused."
Over the next few hours, I watch as she juggles phone calls and volunteer coordination. She's not afraid to get her hands dirty, helping with food and water while simultaneously firing off texts and jotting down notes. Every now and then, she glances at me, as if checking to see if I'm keeping up. And damn it, I am. She's a whirlwind of efficiency and empathy, and I can't help but be impressed. She's not just talking the talk; she's in the trenches with us. Every time she glances my way, it's like she's checking if I'm still on board. And damn it, I am. I misjudged her before. How many times have I jumped to conclusions about her? About others? I thought I was protecting myself and the people I care about, but maybe I've just been shielding myself.
"Hey, Maddie..." I start, voice rougher than I intended. "I was wrong. Yesterday... I was out of line, and I'm sorry. I keep screwing up, but I'm trying to do better."
She looks up, surprise flashing across her face before her expression hardens. "Wow, an apology from Nosferatu himself. But here's the thing. This isn't the first time. You did this when I first moved in, assuming I'd use your mom for a story. And now this. Words matter—trust me, I should know—but they're not enough when the same pattern keeps repeating." She tilts her heat. "I should know that, too. Since I keep on going viral for all the wrong reasons."
"Again, you didn't mean for the letter to get published." I clench my jaw. "And you're right. About apologies. I've had my fair share of shitty apologies so I know what you mean. I'm working on it."
"Okay, well. I appreciate the apology." She sighs. "We've got work to do."
With that, we dive back into the work, side by side, proving that actions can indeed speak as loudly as words.
She's also keeping the newspaper updated. As I come into the former meeting room, I overhear her chatting with Ed.
"Yes. I know. I'll send off the facts for the website," she says firmly. "But I'd like to do one more column on this. And not in the Dear Santa section—because that one is important, too. I'm here, I'm involved. I'm already a columnist."
There's a pause as she listens, her brow furrowing in concentration.
"Exactly. The Dear Santa letters, they've shown me something. I want to do more than just report. I want to help, to make a difference."
Another pause. She rubs her temple with her finger.
"You're right. Maybe the Not-So-Crabby-News contest is exactly what I need if I want to pivot my career. They're offering that one-year travel if I win. And it's about finding stories that matter, that can create change."
I pretend to be occupied with a stack of forms, but I'm listening intently. The more I watch her—her focus, her drive, the way she calms the animals with a touch—the more I see someone who genuinely cares. And it's messing with my head. I was wrong about her before. Maybe I've been wrong about a lot of things.
She ends the call and turns back to the task at hand, not realizing I've overheard. As she helps fill water bowls, I find myself not reassessing her—but reassessing my reactions to her. Remembering how I fucked up when I judged her before, thinking she was here to use this town as a stepping stone. And how she's right: I did it again.
"Hey," I call out, softer than I intended. "You okay with the cleaning supplies? They can be pretty harsh."
She looks up, surprised by my concern. "Yeah, I'm good. Thanks"
We continue working side by side, falling into an unexpectedly comfortable rhythm—until I'm looking for her to show her our progress and find her sitting in the corner, with her laptop, typing furiously.
"Writing the Gazette article?" I ask, curious.
She shakes her head. "No, actually. I'm drafting my column. Someone from the news team is handling the news piece."
I raise an eyebrow. "So you're letting someone else take the lead on the main story?"
"Exactly," she replies, looking up. "They'll cover the facts, the who, what, where, when. Digging into what this means for the community. And I'm focusing on the why and how – the human side of it all. How this shelter, these people, are part of something bigger."
She shows me her screen, a draft full of raw emotion and personal anecdotes. Even one about Prancer.
"See? This is why I love being a columnist. I can dive into the deeper issues, share personal stories, but also help and hopefully inspire people to get involved."
I nod, impressed. "Looks like you're finding your stride in this new role."
Maddie smiles, a mix of exhaustion and satisfaction on her face. "Yeah, I think I am."
By early evening, the shelter is full but no longer in crisis mode. Maddie's work clothes are rumpled, a smudge of dirt on her cheek, but there's a satisfied glint in her eye.
"We made a good dent in the problem," she says, her voice tired but pleased.
I nod, too exhausted for my usual snark. "Yeah, well, you were helpful."
She laughs softly, the sound oddly comforting in the now-quiet shelter. "High praise indeed. I should get going. I'm meeting Aisling tonight."
"Right," I remember. "I'm headed to Ocean City with Alessandro tonight." I'd cancel but my nerves are really wearing thin—clearly based on my outburst yesterday and I need this evening. Plus, we're now in getting shit done mode and the team needs to go home.
"See you. I'm still thinking about an idea to help with the shelter. It'll help me, too. The Not-So-Crabby News team is loving all those updates. I might as well use my renewed online attention for good."
"So, it's a win-win."
"Exactly."
As she walks away, I remember something my therapist said about being open to new experiences and people. Maddie's drive is right there on the surface—she needs to prove herself, to be seen and valued. She doesn't hide that. Maybe she really is as fearless and genuine as she seems, or maybe there's more going on beneath the surface. Either way, she's gotten under my skin, and it's messing with my head. The more I try to keep my distance, the more she draws me in, like she's some force of nature I can't control. And that scares the hell out of me—because the last thing I need is to start relying on someone else. Needing someone? That's a weakness I've learned to avoid.
But I can't focus on that now. I've got to keep my head straight, concentrate on what I can control. Right now, that's a drive to Ocean City and a shelter full of animals who need me. That's where my attention belongs—on the things that don't make me question everything I thought I had figured out.