Chapter Twenty-Four
MARC
The shelter’s common room didn’t look like a shelter’s common room any longer.
Delaney and Cheryl had arrived early this morning to make the space a calm refuge.
I knew this because when I texted Delaney at eight asking if she needed anything, she responded with a voice memo—her hands were full— of what sounded like furniture scraping as Cheryl asked about the weight distribution of a folding table, something about potted plants, and where the fairy lights should go.
Mats were in four rows, spaced out in a way that suggested a measuring tape might have been involved. A light lavender scent filtered from a ceramic diffuser on the windowsill. Larger crystals were arranged throughout. A small basket of tinier ones sat on a draped folding table near the door.
The whole room had been given a purpose it hadn’t had before.
Delaney was in the second row adjusting a mat that didn’t need adjusting. I watched her move it a quarter inch to the left. Study it. Then move it back.
I knew that sequence. She did it with the displays at her store, too—small, repetitive adjustments when her brain was running faster than her hands had tasks for. It was a pattern I’d noted without meaning to, the way I’d mentally recorded most things about her throughout our life.
I crossed the room and stopped just behind her. Close enough that she’d feel the shift. “The mat looks good.”
Her whole body flinched. That complete full-body startle of someone yanked back from deep within their subconscious. I caught her at the waist before she could stumble, both hands settling there, and she steadied beneath my grip with a sharp inhale. “What the fuck, Marc?!”
My nose dipped to the curve of her neck. She smelled like the lavender soap she used, and I’d begun to love. “It looks perfect. There’s nothing else you need to do.”
“I know.” She turned to face me. Stepped back slightly, which meant my hands had to drop. I didn’t release her immediately. She had her serious instructor face on—composed, professional—except her eyes gave away her nervousness. A little too focused, a little too careful, and a little too bright.
I waited.
She pointed to the space over her shoulder while giving me the rundown in precise order.
Cheryl would demonstrate the sequences at the front, while Delaney circled the room offering participants assistance, and animals would be free to approach participants from the perimeter, while I and two volunteers watched for stress signals.
“If something goes sideways, we do this sign.” She held up two fingers, like a scout’s salute.
I nodded.
She’d told me this twice before. I let her tell me again because the repetition was what she needed, not my confirmation.
It was fascinating to see her take a role that was most often mine—detail-oriented, prepared, running contingencies.
I’d spent years noticing the ways we were different.
Only recently had I begun to see how we were the same.
“It’s going to be great,” I said, when she finished.
“You don’t know that.”
“No,” I said. “But I know you.”
I watched that land. The slight shift in her expression, the purse of her lips, the moment where she ran the calculation of whether to let in my support or direct it to somewhere safe.
Delaney’s arms found my waist. She rested her cheek against my chest and let out a deep sigh. “I’m nervous, but having you here is calming me.”
“Not the diffuser?” I teased.
I felt her cheeks twitch through my shirt, knowing she was trying to hold back a smile. “I’ll have you know that’s a personal blend.”
The back door opened, and we separated with practiced ease, slipping easily back into professional mode with set boundaries in public.
Mostly committed. We were still a work in progress.
Cheryl strode in at a pace that said she had a specific to-do list for the day and had probably already accomplished half of it by noon. She had a sound machine in one hand, a tote bag in the other, and keys jangling.
Then she stopped. Her gaze moved from Delaney to me to the distance—or lack of—between us. Her lips twitched as she faced Delaney again, her attention sharpening with quiet satisfaction, as if she’d confirmed her theory.
“Hello, Marc,” she said pleasantly. “Nice of you to take on the role of observer today. I hear that’s something you’re really good at.”
Delaney went pink from her collarbone up. “Cheryl!”
“What?” She was already moving toward the crystal table, tote bag swinging. “I’m being welcoming.”
“You—I—” Delaney sputtered.
I meant to reassure Delaney that while I was absolutely certain what Cheryl meant, I wasn’t angry. Instead, what came out was my imperfect Desi Arnaz impersonation, “Laney, you got some ‘splaining to do.”
Throughout the week, we’d been watching reruns, trying to debunk whether or not that catchphrase had actually been uttered or if it was a collective false memory.
She snorted despite herself. “Why, Marc, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Classic denial of any wrongdoing, Laney.”
She rose on her toes and pressed a quick kiss to my cheek. “She wore me down. I’m sorry. I had to tell her.”
“I’m relentless in my interrogations,” Cheryl called from across the room without looking up.
“Just let’s please keep things between us during class,” I said, aiming for stern and landing somewhere in the vicinity of resignation. “My grandmother will be here.”
Cheryl burst out laughing. Delaney shook her head and went to check the supply cabinet as though she was removing herself from the situation before it got worse.
Cheryl, having finished her setup, strolled my way.
“I’ve been watching you two over the past few days.
” Matter-of-fact. “You seem good for her, Kingsley, but if you do anything to hurt her …” She drew one finger slowly across her throat.
“I don’t care what your last name is. They’ll never find your body. ”
From the supply cabinet. “Cheryl, leave him alone. I can take care of myself.”
“I know you can.” She raised both her hands, the picture of innocence. “I’m just making sure he knows what a good friend I am.”
“I respect your position,” I said.
She gave me a single chin nod and headed back to her setup.
I went to find Theo.
He was in the small breakroom doing what Theo did best before anything important: organizing what needed to be done and talking through his concerns to whoever was closest. Today, that was Rutherford, a beagle who lay on a doggy bed, his head on his paws, with a disinterested expression showing he was providing emotional support under duress.
“Should I put Butterball on the left or right side of the room?” Theo asked the whiteboard.
The dog barked.
“Right side,” Theo decided. “He likes the sun.”
“Theo,” I called out, keeping my voice low so I didn’t startle him.
He turned. The rueful grin he gave me was the specific one he reserved for moments when he was caught talking to the animals. “Sorry. I just want tonight to go well.”
I walked up beside him, shoulder to shoulder, to look at the board. It had a diagram. “I know this is going to sound strange coming from me, but it’s not going to matter. The animals will go where they want to go. We can plan for it or work with it.”
Theo let out a laugh loud enough to startle Rutherford, who gave him what looked like a dirty look for disturbing him.
Theo’s shoulders let down the tiniest bit. Progress. “I want these guys to find their forever homes, you know?”
“That’s what we’ll focus on.” I exhaled slowly, scrubbing a hand over my jaw before answering. “I talked to Grace about the marketing side. She has ideas about getting more visibility across the state. Budget’s the issue, but she said there are angles worth exploring.”
His smile stretched wide across his face. “She mentioned some of that the last time we talked. If we get the grant—”
“When.”
He looked at me sideways.
“When,” I said again.
Theo was quiet for a moment. Then he reached over and pulled me into a bro hug. “Whatever happens tonight or any of the next… I want you to know you’ve done more for this shelter than you know.”
I didn’t have an answer that didn’t feel insufficient, so I clapped him on the shoulder and stepped away. I dragged a hand over the nape of my neck. “If you don’t get the grant, you know my family wouldn’t mind donating the money to help.”
Theo sighed. “Listen, if it gets bad enough, I’ll let you know. Your family has helped us out before, and I appreciate it, but we can’t lean on the Kingsley family money forever. I need to find ways that we can support ourselves better.”
“You’re a good guy, Theo Patterson.”
The words settled between us, no rush to fill the space. Rutherford snuffled somewhere at our feet, and Theo huffed out a quiet breath, his gaze dropping to the floor.
We let the silence stretch between us.
He took hold of Rutherford’s leash, and we headed out of the room. “Henderson got out last week.”
Henderson was the shelter’s boldest, friendliest cat, a shorthaired brown tabby.
He was an official greeter and had seemingly taken the place of Ellie’s cat, Stormy, who’d been the resident Houdini.
“He gets out every week. It’s why we have him in class tonight.
He’s gentle and wants to be where the action is anyway. ”
Back in the yoga room, Melanie, a shelter volunteer, was there with a few carriers and a dog on a leash. I crossed over to her and ran through the checklist—health clearances, behavioral flags, and anything that had come up in the last twenty-four hours.
“I’m really hoping someone adopts Marmalade. She’s been here so long,” she said, dropping her voice.
“Why are we whispering?” I asked.
“I don’t want to jinx things, I guess. I don’t know.” She shrugged and laughed.
I glanced down at the older dog at the end of Melanie’s leash. Gray muzzle, patient eyes, the particular stillness of an animal that had learned how to wait.
“She’s been here around fourteen months?” I asked.
Melanie nodded.