Chapter Eight #2
“I don’t think you’re incompetent,” I added, because apparently I couldn’t leave well enough alone.
Words poured out of my mouth like I’d lost the ability to self-edit.
“We may disagree on the methodology. You are impulsive and are inclined toward intuitive decision-making, where I generally overthink every variable. You’re more instinct-driven.
I’m more data-driven. But that doesn’t mean—”
Her eyebrow lifted slowly, and I watched the movement with far too much attention. The arch of it. The way it changed her whole expression.
I winced internally. That had not helped.
She stared at me for a long second, and I couldn’t read her expression. Couldn’t tell if she was angry or amused or simply done with this entire conversation.
“That’s your apology?”
“Yes?” I said, hesitantly.
Which was very unlike me. I was decisive. I spoke in certainties and provable truths.
But Delaney made me uncertain in ways I didn’t know how to navigate.
“Try again,” she demanded.
I wished apologies came with bullet points. Or a flow chart. Preferably color coded.
She tapped her fingers on the table—a steady rhythm that seemed to echo the erratic beat of my pulse.
I found myself watching her hands—the pale pink polish chipped at the corner of her thumbnail, a faint scar along her knuckle I’d never noticed before—and wondered how it had happened.
If it had hurt. If she’d been alone or if someone had been there to help her.
When had I started noticing these things?
When had I started … caring?
Or had I always?
But I’d never acknowledged it. It was filed away in that mental folder because acknowledging it would mean—
What exactly?
That I wanted something I couldn’t control? Couldn’t plan for? Couldn’t guarantee it wouldn’t end in disaster?
I remembered standing across the street from her shop when she moved in three months ago, watching her laugh with Cheryl while the sunlight caught the purple in her hair. She’d been so animated; her hands gesturing wildly as she told some story I couldn’t hear.
I’d told myself I was annoyed by how loud she was. How expressive.
Now I wondered if any of that had been true, or if I’d been uncomfortable with how much I liked watching her. How much I liked the way she moved through the world like she belonged in it. How much I wanted to be the one who made her laugh like that.
How much I just … liked her.
Damn it. This was a big fucking problem that I had no idea what to do with.
“I’m sorry,” I said quietly. The words felt inadequate. “I should’ve spoken to you privately before putting my concerns out to the general public. That wasn’t fair. It wasn’t respectful. And you deserved better.”
Her expression shifted—just slightly. The hard edges softened. The tension in her shoulders eased.
“Thank you.”
Two words. That was all.
But relief loosened the tightness in my chest I hadn’t realized was there. Like I’d been holding my breath for days and could finally exhale.
I tapped my pen against my clipboard. “Are you ready to discuss next steps?”
She nodded, and a small smile tugged at her lips. “Yeah. Let’s do this.”
We talked about logistics—sessions, space, and timing. The conversation was smoother now, but not easy. We still disagreed more than we agreed. But the way we disagreed had changed. Less combative and more collaborative.
It felt like progress. Small, but real.
Talking to her was getting easier. “I spoke with Theo earlier about how many sessions he thinks would assist in getting a spotlight on the animals here.” She leaned forward as I spoke, and I found myself mirroring the movement.
“He suggested one a week for four weeks. There’s a room just beyond where the cats are housed that’s being used as storage now, but if we can move the items, it would make a decent-sized yoga space. ”
She considered it. “Can I take a look today to see the size? Before we decide on a class size, I want to make sure that there’s enough room for everyone to stretch out, and to accommodate the animals’ needs.”
I nodded. “That’s reasonable.”
“I think if we give ourselves the next month or two to plan, that should be sufficient time for us to work out any logistical issues.” And it might get us past the date the grant committee could possibly stop by for a visit.
“We’ll need protocols for animal handling, participant waivers, emergency procedures—”
“Marc.” Her voice cut through my fast moving thoughts.
I looked up.
“That timeline’s fine with me,” she said.
“Okay. Good.” I let out a breath, working to slow my thoughts and my part of our conversation. “If you flip to the last three pages, I have the current list of animals at the shelter.”
As she flipped through, her eyebrows rose. “You categorized by temperament?”
“Yes. And startle response. Also, food motivation, because that will be relevant for managing behavior during sessions.”
“That’s … very you.”
I studied her face. “I’m choosing to interpret that as a compliment.”
“It wasn’t entirely a compliment,” she admitted.
“I am fully aware of that, Delaney. I had decided to ignore your dig.”
She flushed—a pale pink that spread across her cheeks and down her neck. I watched it happen with too much fascination. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”
I gave her a sharp nod. I wasn’t that clueless to not know she was being snarky. I also recognized that she felt powerless and was just reacting, especially after my public questioning of her competence. I also had begun to notice sarcasm was her defense mechanism.
People weren’t all that different from animals, really. When cornered, they lashed out. It didn’t mean they were cruel. Just scared.
She stood abruptly, chair scraping against the linoleum. “Let’s go look at who we might work with. These spreadsheets don’t mean anything to me if I can’t apply that knowledge to the animals.”
We spent the next forty minutes debating over which animals would work.
A bunny was too skittish.
“He’s perfect,” Delaney cooed, holding the small gray rabbit against her chest. “Look at his sweet wittle nose.”
“Look at his heartrate,” I countered, pointing to the rapid rise and fall of his ribcage. “He’s three seconds away from cardiac arrest. One unexpected sound and he’ll launch himself across the room.”
“That’s a bit dramatic.”
“Is it?” I pulled out my phone and played a video of a similar breed of rabbit literally backflipping out of someone’s arms during a yoga class. “The rabbit’s fine. The participant’s nose was broken.”
She stared at the screen, then at the rabbit, and then back at me. “You researched rabbit-related yoga injuries?”
“I researched all animal-related yoga injuries.” I’d spent four hours compiling a database.
She set the rabbit down gently. “Fine. No cardiac-arrest bunnies.”
A golden retriever was too enthusiastic.
“This is Sunny,” I said as the dog immediately jumped on Delaney, nearly knocking her over.
I moved instinctively, my hand finding Delaney’s elbow to steady her—and stayed there longer than strictly necessary—until she was balanced.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Yeah. Just—wow, he’s strong.” She laughed, scratching behind Sunny’s ears as his entire body wiggled with joy. His tail whipped back and forth like a weapon.
“He’s entirely food motivated,” I added.
“Sometimes a little too motivated,” a volunteer walking by interjected with a laugh.
“Define ‘too motivated’?” Delaney asked. “I didn't think that could be a problem.”
“He ate an entire birthday cake last week. Off the counter. He slipped away for two seconds,” the volunteer added.
I looked at Delaney.
She sighed. “I know. He might be a little too much for yoga, but I’d still like to spotlight him in some way. In the right home, he would be the best addition. Look at all the love he has to give.” She gave Sunny one last pat before the volunteer put him back in his kennel.
“Maybe part of our class will be to take a walk through the shelter before or afterward. I know Theo was talking about waiving adoption fees on those days.”
Her eyes lit up. “Yes, I love that idea!”
Next, we made our way to the area where the cats were kept.
The first one attempted to murder my shoelaces.
Actually, calling it attempted murder was generous. This cat—a scraggly orange tabby named Cheeto—had declared a blood feud on my footwear with the intensity of a trained assassin. Or by an animal who had been personally wronged by loafers in a previous life.
“He’s very … um … playful,” Delaney said, biting her lip.
Cheeto wrapped both front paws around my ankle and began rabbit-kicking my shin with his back legs. With purpose. With commitment. With the desire to do damage.
This cat had a goal and that was the complete destruction of my left shoe.
Now she was laughing so hard her shoulders shook, and she leaned against the wall to keep herself upright.
“This isn’t funny,” I said, pretending to be annoyed.
Delaney made a sound that was technically not a laugh. It was more like a laugh being strangled by a person completely failing at strangling it. She pressed her hand to her mouth. Her shoulders shook. She took a step back and put her weight against the wall like she needed structural support.
She was absolutely no help.
“It’s a little funny,” she managed between giggles.
“This cat is feral and a safety liability.”
This sent her fully over the edge. “He’s enthusiastic.”
Cheeto, unbothered by being described as a safety liability or feral, decided my ankle was merely base camp and began scaling my leg like I was Mount Everest and he was a very small, aggressive hiker.
I looked down at him.
He looked up at me. His wide, fully black eyes said, I have no regrets, and I would do this again.
I peeled him off my leg with both hands and held him at eye level. I kept my hold gentle, knowing how worked up he was.