Ch 9 – Jax
J ax groaned awake to the sound of soft, delicate chimes. Reaching across the bed to the nightstand, she turned off the humming alarm on her phone. Near her feet, a head popped up from the tangles of her quilt. Jax stared, befuddled, into a pair of curious green eyes.
The cat. It took her mind a moment to recognize the spotted creature curled up on her bed.
“What are you doing here?” Her voice creaked with sleep. Styles had never slept on her bed before. Cranking herself into a sitting position, Jax bent forward and extended her arm. The kitten sniffed her fingers, then bumped her hand with his cheek. Gently, she ran her fingers down his back, marveling at his soft, glossy fur.
“Maybe you’re not entirely terrible,” she mumbled, pulling the blanket off her legs. The motion startled the kitten. He leaped off the bed and scrambled out the door. A moment later, Jax heard the sound of something heavy thunk onto the floor in the kitchen.
“I stand corrected,” she grumbled.
Shoving a tangle of hair out of her eyes, she grabbed for her phone to check her calendar. She stopped, mid-reach, as her eyes landed on the business card she’d tossed onto her nightstand next to her phone.
RICO TORRE S
INVESTIGATIVE REPORTER
KPVM NEWS, GREATER SAN DIEGO
The letters were all-caps. Big, bold, and overly confident, just like the man himself. Why had she taken his card? Leaving him hanging yesterday at the winery would have been majorly awkward, but after those horrendous pickup lines he’d thrown at her, a man like Rico Torres could use a few bruises to bring his ego down to reasonable proportions.
Why, then? Jax stared accusingly at the card. But she knew the uncomfortable truth. Because as much as his smarmy attitude repelled her, something about Rico also excited her. If she squinted hard—really, reeeeeally hard—she may have almost seen a hint of vulnerability in his eyes when he’d held out the card to her.
And like it or not, the man was a half-decent journalist. Shameful curiosity had gotten the better of her last night, and Jax had checked out a few of his stories on YouTube. Rico specialized in investigative reporting—her own area of interest— and seemed to possess a dual talent for perfect hair and sniffing out dirt on local officials.
He’d broken some important local stories that had resulted in officials losing elections or even seeing the inside of a prison cell. Less impressive to Jax, unless she counted their sheer quantity, were the unending comments from all his lovelorn fans. Never had she imagined a news story about homeless shelter contracts could receive so many heart emojis or rack up not one but six separate marriage proposals.
No wonder the man’s ego was the size of Godzilla. If unleashed, it could probably crush Tokyo underfoot.
Ignoring the business card, Jax grabbed her phone off the nightstand and pulled up her calendar. Her mouth set in a tight line as she read the first appointment of the day.
*
Later that morning, Jax entered a small building fitted snugly between a bakery and a yarn shop on Chaparral Drive, the town’s main shopping thoroughfare.
“Welcome to the— JAX!” Layla smiled broadly behind the front desk of the All Paws and Claws vet clinic. Styles released a long, sonorous song of protest from within the borrowed carrying case at Jax’s side.
“I swear to God he somehow knows he’s losing his balls today,” Jax said as she approached the front desk and set the case on the floor.
“I’ve always found animals to be incredibly intuitive,” Layla agreed, and tapped on her keyboard. “Let me just get you checked in here.”
“Sure.” Jax looked around the reception area. The room was almost aggressively joyful, filled with adorable pet posters, bright colors, and whimsical signs. Clearly, Layla had been given free rein to decorate. A pink ceramic jar containing dog treats sat on one end of the reception desk. Someone—1,000 percent it was Layla—had painted a grinning dog’s face on the jar. Likewise, the cat treat jar on the other side of the desk featured a smiling cat’s face on the front. A massive collage hung on the wall behind the reception desk.
Our Family announced a handwritten sign in the middle of the collage, surrounded by pictures of animals. The photos mostly featured cats and dogs, but Jax also spotted rabbits, birds, lizards, a turtle, and was that . . .? Jax looked again. Yep, most definitely a camel.
“Okay, you’re all checked in,” Layla said. Today the Crazy Cat Lady Club’s most cheerful member wore a bright red headband over her braided hair and a matching ladybug-print blouse. She looked freakin’ adorable.
Compared to her, Jax felt possessed by the demon of frumpiness. She wore a loose, short-sleeved cotton dress over jeans stuffed into her heavy combat boots. Well, at least her clothes were comfortable, and they felt . . . safe.
“Would you like to pay now or when you pick him up?” Layla asked.
Jax sighed and pulled her credit card from the back of her phone case. With all the extra hours she’d been putting in at the winery, she’d finally managed to pay off her credit card balance last month. She’d even been—gasp—actually considering opening a savings account.
Womp, womp . Jax watched Layla run her card. Just one more expense to add to Haley’s mile-long IOU list, starting with that Monster High doll Jax had shelled out for when they were 12. The irony was, Haley’s parents were loaded and still gave her a monthly allowance.
Didn’t matter. Haley was perpetually broke and always begging Jax for a micro-loan to the Haley Relief Fund. Haley always swore on her mother’s grave she was good for the money. Jax should know better. Haley’s mom was alive and well, after all.
“Don’t worry, I’m giving you the friends and family discount,” Layla said with a wink. Still, the total, $280, was eye-watering. Jax whispered a tiny eulogy for this month’s spending money.
“Everyone gets the friends and family discount,” a grumpy voice stated from an open doorway. A squat woman, her steel-gray hair twisted into a no-nonsense bun, waved her over. “Exam room two.” As if not trusting Jax’s comprehension ability, she pointed to a placard next to the door stamped with the number 2 .
“Good luck, Styles,” Layla cooed, bending over the desk. “You’ll do great!”
Jax carried the squalling pet case into the exam room. With expert precision, the other woman plucked the cat from the case, weighed him, stuck a thermometer up his butt, and tapped a few keys on the tablet in the crook of her arm .
She offered no small talk. No sugar-sweet platitudes. Her name tag said Kate .
Jax fell a little bit in love with Kate. Would the older woman possibly consider adopting her?
“No food since eight p.m. last night?” Kate asked. The question sounded more like an order.
“No, ma’am.” Jax resisted the temptation to salute.
“Good.” Kate slapped a sheet of paper on the exam counter. “This is a consent form for anesthesia. If you have any questions before signing, Dr. Goldman can answer them. He should be in shortly.”
With that, the magnificent Kate disappeared through a back door, her sensible black sneakers barely making a sound. Jax found herself alone in the room with Styles. The kitten was breathing fast, his eyes wide, ears back.
Jax stroked his head. “Sorry, dude, but it’s for the best,” she said, which was dumb because A) cats sucked at English and B) sorry wasn’t exactly reassuring when one’s balls were on the line.
She skimmed the anesthesia form. A tiny ache fluttered open in her chest. Would Styles be afraid as they prepped him for surgery? What would happen when he woke, groggy and in pain, in this strange place? Would he think she’d abandoned him?
Jax scribbled her name on the line above the printed words Pet Guardian .
The back door opened and a small man tromped into the room. He was delicately boned and possessed a sharp nose and small, friendly eyes tucked behind rimless glasses. Thick white clouds of hair sprouted from either side of his head, parting for a shiny dome in the middle. Had he insisted he’d done a stint in Santa’s workshop in the ’80s, Jax might have just believed him .
“Ahhhh!” His eyes gleamed as they landed on Styles. “A truly gorgeous Bengal we’ve got here. Look at those spots, Kate.”
“I see them, Doctor.”
“You mean you’ve spotted them?” The man chuckled. Jax felt the urge to smile and groan at the same time.
The vet looked at her. His face was open and friendly, deep laugh lines bracketing both sides of his mouth. He stuck out a thin hand.
“Dr. Goldman at your service, but most of my patients call me Woof or Meow.” He grinned, clearly pleased with his joke.
“Jacklyn,” Jax said, taking his hand. “But most people call me Jax.”
“I hear you’re a friend of Layla’s,” Dr. Goldman said as he pressed a stethoscope against Styles’s chest. “Such a sweet girl. Like a daughter to me. Thank God she didn’t get my looks, though!” He laughed again, causing Styles to try and bolt.
Like a pet ninja, Kate was suddenly there, clamping her hands on the kitten and holding him down.
“Let’s see, let’s see.” Dr. Goldman cocked his head. “Yes, everything sounds good. This kitten is fit as a fiddle.” The vet peered into the kitten’s ears, then pulled up his lips to inspect his teeth. “And we’re here for a neuter today, correct?”
Jax nodded.
“Very good.” Dr. Goldman patted an irritated Styles on the head. “We usually recommend that kittens get fixed around four months of age, but I like to say better late than never.” The diminutive vet looked up at her. “Feeling nervous? It’s completely normal for pet guardians.”
“I’m not his—” Jax began.
“Not to worry. The surgery is extremely safe,” Dr. Goldman continued. “And neutering is so important. Cats that aren’t spayed or neutered can develop a range of problematic behaviors that make them difficult to keep. In fact, we find a lot of male cats about the age of this fine gentleman here on the streets. They’re not feral. It’s clear they had a home once, but un-neutered males start spraying when they hit maturity and their urine is very, how shall we say . . .”
“Pungent,” Jax offered. She was well aware.
“Right you are, Jax. Pungent,” the vet continued. “It can lead to cats being abandoned on the street or landing in shelters. It’s heartbreaking.”
“And cruel,” Kate added.
“Well, Kate”—Dr. Goldman held up a finger—“we shouldn’t judge. Not everyone can afford these procedures. There are a lot of people who love their pets but face difficult circumstances.”
“I can and will judge,” Kate responded flatly.
Jax felt her cheeks heat. Hadn’t she been half-seriously contemplating leaving her apartment door open in the hopes Styles might wander out of her life? Shit, I suck, she thought. She hadn’t given into temptation, but that didn’t make her feel better. Especially as Styles stared at her with fearful green eyes.
“Spaying and neutering also drastically lower the risks of testicular and mammary cancers in cats,” Dr. Goldman said as he shined a light in Styles’s eyes. “And of course, the main reason we recommend spaying and neutering all cats is that, well, unfixed cats make kittens.”
Dr. Goldman clicked off his penlight and stuck it in the pocket of his lab coat. “A mature female can have two to three litters a year. Not good.”
“Not good,” Kate echoed.
For the first time, Dr. Goldman’s smile left his face. “The more kittens on the street, the less space we have in the shelters, which means some pets have to be euthanized. We don’t like that, do we, Kate?”
“We hate that,” Kate clarified .
“Which is all to say that you’re doing a good thing, my girl,” the vet said, his smile returning. “The surgery itself is brief. Then we’ll just keep Styles for another hour or so for observation. Give us a call around two p.m., and we’ll let you know if you can pick him up. Kate here will go over all his care instructions before you bring him home.”
He clapped his hands together. “Any questions?”
Styles gazed at Jax with large, beseeching eyes. A wave of protectiveness washed over her.
“No,” she stammered. “Just . . . just take good care of him, okay?”
Dr. Goldman nodded, his smile warm and understanding. “He’s in good hands, young lady, I promise. Every pet and every pet guardian is family.”
Jax nodded. She believed him, but her throat still felt like it’d been shoveled full of gravel. Kate took a step forward and reached for Styles.
“Wait,” Jax said.
The gray-haired woman’s eyes softened. She stepped back and nodded. “Take your time.”
Jax stroked Styles. The kitten was jittery. His tail flicked back and forth, and he hunched beneath her hand. His eyes seemed filled with questions she couldn’t answer.
“It’s going to be okay, Styles,” she told him. “I’ll see you soon, I promise.”
She stepped back and felt the ache in her chest grow and grow as Kate placed Styles in his case and carried it out of the exam room.
*
All day at school, Jax found she couldn’t stop worrying about the cat. The cat she loathed. The cat who routinely murdered her possessions. The cat who, just to be clear, wasn’t even her cat.
As her professors droned on, her mind wandered. Were they prepping Styles for his surgery at this very moment? Was he on the operating table? What if Dr. Goldman had a heart attack and accidentally severed a major artery? The vet wasn’t exactly a spry young chicken. Also, did cats even have major arteries near their ball sacks?
During a break between classes, Jax bought a ham and cheese sandwich at the student union building, sat by herself, and indulged in one of her favorite hobbies. People-watching.
She observed a kid roll by on a skateboard and almost careen into a girl FaceTiming someone on her phone. An older woman sat on a nearby bench knitting with a pink backpack at her feet. A Ninja Turtles sticker on the backpack included a speech bubble that said Go Mom! in childish handwriting.
This is what Jax adored about Sagebrush Canyon College. Practically invisible to the outside world, the commuter school attracted a nearly equal amount of recent high school grads and working adults. With a student body of roughly 15,000 students, SCC couldn’t have been more different than the massive San Diego university Jax had originally attended.
When people-watching got a little boring, Jax studied a crow picking at something on the sidewalk—it looked like a hamburger bun—then pulled her phone from her messenger bag. Taking another bite of her sandwich, she considered wiling away the rest of her free time with pimple-popping TikToks.
But she kept thinking about the damn cat. Without knowing exactly why, she tapped open the chat thread for the Crazy Cat Lady Club. The vast majority of the texts in the thread featured cat pics, but peppered between the pics were random daily updates, silly memes, and cat care questions, mostly from Alanna and Tess, followed by expansive answers from Everly and Layla. Willow usually offered a heart emoji on the pics but was otherwise silent .
Jax had provided an occasional heart emoji of her own; after all, even she’d melted at the pic of Everly’s foster kitten Snickers asleep with her little face smooshed into the couch. But Jax had never commented in the group. She’d wanted to ask questions about Styles, but she’d always hesitated. She wasn’t really part of the group. Tess had probably just added her to the chat to be nice.
Now, though, she longed to reach out.
Fuck it. Shoving her fears aside, she tapped out a message and hit send while holding her breath.
Jax: Styles [cat emoji] is getting the [scissors emoji] [soccer ball emoji] [soccer ball emoji]. Worried. [Sad face emoji.]
She let out a breath, then pulled up TikTok. Those pimple pops weren’t going to watch themselves. Her phone pinged.
Layla: He’s out of surgery. No issues!!! [Cat emoji] [Rainbow emoji]
Alanna: Awwww, @Jax, you DO care about Styles. Also, this romance book blows. [Explosion emoji]
Jax: I never said I didn’t care. [Eye roll emoji.]
Layla: What? You don’t like the [book emoji]??? Why not?
Tess: So glad your little guy is doing good. You’re going to take such great care of him! [Heart emoji]
Alanna: This chick just walks through a crime scene and punches a cop in the face? Uh, no. Jail time for sure. [Handcuffs emoji.]
Everly: Styles will be a little groggy tonight. He may not eat much. That’s totes normal. Just try to keep him calm. Do kids say totes anymore?
Willow: I also thought it was odd that she walked onto the crime scene.
Layla: Her sister was murdered! Naomie was upset!!! [Sad face emoji] [Angry face emoji] @Alanna wouldn’t you march into a crime scene if I was murdered ?
Alanna: Hmmmm . . . What shoes am I wearing? I don’t want to get blood on my Louboutins.
Everly: I would def punch a cop who tried to block me from your murder scene @Layla
Layla: Awww, @Everly [heart emoji] [heart emoji]
Jax couldn’t help but smile as she swallowed the last bite of her sandwich. Sure, the convo had immediately veered off topic, but she still felt supported. In the midst of arguing over a dumb romance novel, these women were here for her. That made Jax feel warm, fuzzy, and a little terrified.
She decided not to think too hard on that. Her next class was starting soon anyway. After tossing away the sandwich wrapper, she made her way to the squat communications building, tripping on her shoelaces just before walking through the front door.
In class, she swung into a seat and was just pulling out her laptop when Professor Hopkins stormed into the room. He wasn’t particularly angry at any one thing. The man simply stormed as a matter of form. Short and more than a little aggro about it, Professor Hopkins chewed gum like it’d insulted his mother and made it his personal mission to terrify at least half the students into dropping his class before the end of the semester.
Naturally, Jax adored her Journalism 101 professor.
Hopkins glanced at his watch. “One p.m.,” he announced in a gravelly voice tainted from decades of smoking. “Your stories better be in my inbox now, or it’s a zero. In the real world, a newspaper deadline waits for no one.”
Somewhere in the back of the class, a student furiously typing on his keyboard groaned.
Hopkins was a fossil and proud of it. A newspaper man his whole life, he’d worked for the Philadelphia Inquirer , Cleveland Plain Dealer , and the San Diego Union-Tribune . He liked to claim ink ran through his veins, almost as much as he delighted in bemoaning the slow and brutal death of newspapers across the country.
Now he opened his mouth and unleashed a tirade of review material for the upcoming final. The man had the lungs of an ox and didn’t seem to care much for breathing as he ran through the primary structure of a news story (summary lead, nut graph, backing up the lead).
Jax had chosen Journalism 101 on a whim. She’d heard the professor was a sadistic monster and, naturally, had wanted in on that. And she’d loved every minute of it, so much so that she’d changed her major to communications with a focus on journalism and volunteered as a stringer for the East County Caller . Hopkins ran the nonprofit news website with an iron fist because, as he noted, it was mildly more preferable than drinking himself to death.
“Pick up your AP Stylebook ,” Hopkins barked. Jax already had her used, beaten copy on her desk.
“Peterson, where’s your book?” Hopkins asked.
The same poor sap who had clearly just earned a zero on his last assignment gulped. “I think I forgot it.”
“God help you, Peterson,” Hopkins growled. “Shoulda dropped the course when you had the chance.”
He turned back to the class and lofted a copy of the Associated Press Stylebook above his head. The book was demoralizingly thick and filled cover to cover with the Associated Press’s imperious mandates on every possible function of grammar, from dealing with transitional expressions to how to treat nonrestrictive appositives vs. restrictive appositives.
Every journalist worth their mettle wrote according to AP standards, ergo, every student in Hopkins’s class was expected to as well. Even the smallest mistake, such as writing who in place of whom resulted in points deducted on an assignment.
The man was merciless and proud of it.
“For the next week until finals, this book will be your best friend,” Hopkins spoke, still waving the AP Stylebook above his head. “It will be your boyfriend or girlfriend or anime pillow, whatever the hell you kids are humping these days. You will worship this book.”
Jax felt like gulping. She spent an extra hour on every single writing assignment for Hopkins going through the style manual to check for mistakes . . . and she still never caught them all.
“As a journalist, you can’t afford to waste time checking everything you write against this book,” Hopkins continued as if he’d read her mind. “I expect you to have this book memorized, which is why anything in the book is game for the final.”
Groans rang through the classroom. Hopkins smiled as if feeding off the misery of his students. “But since I’m going soft in my old age, I’ll offer you an alternative to the final.”
Jax perked up in her seat. It felt like a trap, but she’d walk through a pit of vipers to avoid marrying her AP Stylebook for the next week.
“In the news business, as in most areas of life, networking is everything,” Hopkins proclaimed, finally dropping the book on his desk with a heavy bang. “Jobs are scarce and getting scarer all the time. It’s who you know, not what you know. With that in mind, if you can interview a real, living, breathing journalist and write a profile piece on them, I will grade that in lieu of your final.”
The old man frowned and punched a forefinger at the class. “A REAL journalist, mind you.”
A hand shot up.
Hopkins scowled. “Peterson? ”
The kid with an unruly mop of orange hair spoke. “My cousin does unboxing videos of Apple products on YouTube. He has over fifty thousand follo—”
“NO!” Hopkins barked. “Any other questions?”
No one dared.
After Hopkins dismissed the class, Jax slid her laptop into her bag, followed by the weighty AP Stylebook .
“Ms. Costas, a moment if you please,” Hopkins said.
Jax slung her messenger bag over one shoulder and made her way to the front of the room. Though he’d quit years ago, Hopkins still smelled faintly of cigarette smoke, as if the scent had embedded in the very fibers of his skin.
He shoved another stick of gum in his mouth. “Just edited your piece on that new yoga studio in Yucca Hills.” He didn’t look up as students filed past them. “Had to tighten it up, but not bad for a rookie.”
Compliment of the year from Hopkins. Jax tried not to beam with pride.
“Real interesting dynamic there,” he continued. “Young wife opening the shop, older, rich husband. You made the story compelling without getting salacious about it, a skill I thought was extinct in your generation. Thank you for giving me a smidgeon of hope for our future, Costas.”
“You are going soft, Hopkins,” she retorted, pulling a lollipop from her pocket. “I’ll be sitting in on the city council meeting tomorrow. Should be able to get you a write-up that night.”
The older man nodded, then peered at her from beneath his wiry gray eyebrows. “If you want to get out of the final, I have a few contacts at the Union-Trib who might be open for an interview. I could make an introduction. ”
“You know it hurts my feelings that you don’t hate me as equally as the other kids,” she said.
He shrugged. “Everyone plays favorites. That’s life, kid. I’d give introductions to any student, but none of ’em ever think to ask.”
“You love that they’re terrified of you.” She leaned against his desk.
“An old man’s got to have some fun. YOLO as you kids say.”
“We don’t say that anymore.”
“Dammit. You’re making me feel old, and I’m already ancient.” Hopkins smacked his gum.
Jax sucked on her lollipop. “I, uh, I actually might have someone I can interview,” she admitted. “He’s an asshole, though, so I’ll probably just do the final.”
“Lotta people in journalism are assholes,” her professor said. “Whaddya expect when you get paid shit for doing some of the country’s most important work?”
“I’ll probably take the final,” Jax said again.
“Then take luck.” Hopkins laughed, raspy and delighted. It’d probably fill his heart with joy to fail his favorite student. The lovable bastard.
*
Later that night, Jax stretched belly-down on her bed and flipped through the AP Stylebook . The words were starting to ooze off the page. What had she just been trying to memorize? Right, split infinitives . . .
What were those again?
“Ugh.” Jax slapped the book shut and rolled onto her back. Studying for this final was like trying to cram a dump truck’s worth of information into a teacup. She glanced up into an accusing green stare.
Right. The AP Stylebook wasn’t her only enemy at the moment .
“Look, I already said I was sorry about you waking up without your testicles,” Jax said to the small kitten, who hunched on the farthest edge of the bed. “How long are you going to hold this against me?”
Styles continued to glower. For all of time, said that stare. The cat’s expression of fury was somewhat undermined by the cone of shame enclosed around his small head.
Jax put her book to the side, turned over, and scooched over to the kitten. “I’m sorry you’re in pain, dude.” She reached out to pet Styles’s head. “In another hour, I can give you some more pain meds.”
The surgery had gone well, as Layla had assured her earlier. Now her instructions were to keep Styles calm and limit activity as much as possible. The cone of shame had to stay in place for five days so he wouldn’t lick at his wound. The cat was clearly miserable, which was making it hard for her to concentrate on studying. He just looked so small, so vulnerable.
She continued to stroke his head. A soft, throaty noise rose from the kitten.
“Hey, you’re purring.” A smile broke out on Jax’s face. Styles had often purred for Haley when she was in one of her loving moods, but he’d never purred for Jax. She stroked his body, scratching behind his ears and around the edges of the cone. The kitten tilted his head into her hand, urging her on.
“You’re a glutton for pets,” she said, “but I’ve got to keep studying.”
She wanted to ace Hopkins’s course, mostly just to piss him off. Her journalism professor held onto his As like Smaug hoarded gold. She looked at the splayed AP book. In the 10 minutes she’d been petting the cat, it felt like every bit of her recently acquired knowledge had just dripped out of her head in a dark sludge of prepositions and dangling modifiers .
Styles bumped her hand with his face, demanding more pets. Jax looked over him at her nightstand. Specifically at the bold-printed business card still resting next to her phone charger.
RICO TORRES
INVESTIGATIVE REPORTER
KPVM NEWS, GREATER SAN DIEGO
Jax groaned in defeat.