Chapter 10 #2
By the time I’ve got my uncooperative brain back in line, we’ve reached the vet’s office.
Whitney opens the door and ushers me in like she’s now in charge of this entire situation.
The front desk is staffed by a woman with silver hair and reading glasses on a chain. She looks sweet and competent, and absolutely not the person I want witnessing my downfall.
Her face lights up the second she sees Whitney.
“Well, if it isn’t Whitney Shields,” she says, standing halfway like she might come around the counter and hug her. “Honey, look at you. How are you? When did you get back?”
Whitney beams. “Doris! Hi. I’m good. I got back a few days ago.”
“Oh, we’ve missed you around here,” Doris says warmly. “You staying with your brother?”
“Actually, I’m with Winnie over on Pelican Point Road.” Whitney points her thumb back at me like I’m luggage. “But—uh—this is Connor Fisk. He’s got an appointment.”
Doris’s gaze slides to me.
Her expression doesn’t change, but I can feel the recognition click into place behind her eyes. Small-town receptionists see everything.
“Mm-hmm,” she says, already tapping at her keyboard. “Connor Fisk. Let me pull you up.”
Doris squints at her screen, then brightens. “Oh! Yes. I have you right here.”
She glances up at me, then back at the computer.
“And you’re here with…” She pauses for the tiniest beat, like she’s making sure she’s reading it correctly.
Then she says, clear as a bell, and ten times louder than necessary, “Pussy.”
Whitney freezes mid-breath.
My soul exits my body and sprints out the door.
Doris keeps going, unfazed. “We’ll just need you to confirm a phone number for Pussy’s chart.”
While I recite my phone number for Doris, Whitney slowly turns her head toward me. Her eyes go wide. “Pussy?”
I stare straight ahead like I can will myself into a different timeline.
“I didn’t name her,” I say, too fast. “It was on her collar.”
Whitney’s lips press together so hard they turn white. Her shoulders start shaking immediately.
“Don’t,” I warn, low.
“That’s quite a name,” she says, finally. “Did you ever consider changing it?”
“I didn’t name her,” I say again, like repetition will save me.
Whitney gestures at the clipboard. “Yeah, but you could’ve called her literally anything else.”
“I tried,” I mutter.
“You tried to rename her?”
“She ignored me,” I say, deadpan.
Whitney’s mouth parts, delighted. “Stop. You tried to rename a cat and she said no?”
“She screamed,” I correct. “Aggressively. Like I’d insulted her bloodline.”
Whitney presses her lips together so hard they start trembling. “What did you try to call her?”
I don’t want to answer. My pride is already bleeding out on this laminate floor.
Whitney leans closer and her delicate scent wraps around me, making it hard to think.
Fuck my life.
“Connor. Tell me,” she whispers.
I exhale, hating every moment of this while also savoring her attention. “I tried ‘Mittens.’”
Whitney makes a strangled sound. “Mittens.”
“It was two a.m.,” I say defensively. “I was sleep-deprived.”
“And she rejected Mittens,” Whitney says, reverent.
“She rejected every option,” I say. “Mittens. Luna. Pepper. Cat.”
Whitney’s shoulders shake. “You tried ‘Cat?’”
“I was troubleshooting,” I mutter.
The burrito in my arms chooses that moment to stick a paw out and tap my chin—like she’s reminding me I’m not in charge here.
Whitney’s eyes track the paw like it’s the best thing she’s seen all day. “Oh my god, she’s reinforcing it.”
“She’s smug,” I say.
Whitney’s grin goes feral. “So basically, you’re being held hostage by a cat named Pussy.”
“I’m not being held hostage,” I grit out.
The cat meows.
Whitney points at her like she’s presenting evidence to a jury. “She says you are.”
Doris hands me a clipboard with paperwork and I stare at the black ink that reads Patient Name: PUSSY and accept that my life is a joke.
We take a seat, and I adjust the cat burrito into my left arm so I can write with my right hand.
Whitney leans in, voice bright with evil. “Okay, but I need you to know I’m going to think about this every time I see you.” She laughs gleefully. “I might even yell out ‘How’s Pussy doing?’ or ‘Be sure to give Pussy a pet for me.’”
“Whitney,” I mutter, signing the form like I’m authorizing my own humiliation.
Doris calls us back a minute later.
The next part is a blur of fluorescent lights and paperwork and a tech who moves with calm competence while Pussy glares at all of us like we’re beneath her. The vet, Dr. Byrd, does the whole gentle voice thing while Pussy tries to claw through the towel.
Whitney hovers close, making soothing noises that are honestly pretty effective, which is annoying for multiple reasons.
By the time Dr. Byrd straightens and removes the earpieces of her stethoscope, she’s already made a decision.
“Okay,” she says, tapping her pen against the chart. “Good news—nothing catastrophic. But she’s dehydrated, and she’s got some inflammation. I want to start her on meds and keep her overnight for fluids.”
My stomach drops. “Overnight?”
“It’ll help her bounce back faster,” Dr. Byrd says. “We’ll get an IV in, keep her comfortable, monitor her, and you can pick her up tomorrow.”
I nod like that doesn’t make me feel ridiculous for how tight my chest gets.
Pussy chooses that moment to go boneless against me, purring like she’s a saint instead of a menace.
Before the tech can take her, my mouth starts moving.
“She likes her ears scratched,” I find myself saying, almost defensively. “Not the top of her head—behind the ear, like this.”
I demonstrate with my thumb, gentle and precise.
Pussy leans into it immediately, purring louder.
Whitney is beside me, and I catch the tiniest hitch of her breath—just one beat—like she didn’t expect that.
“She’s been sneezing on and off,” I continue, because apparently this is a briefing now. “Mostly overnight. No discharge. Appetite’s been good. She likes her water bowl fresh. She won’t drink it if it’s been sitting too long.” I glance down at her. “Diva.”
The tech smiles, patient. “We’ll take good care of her.”
“And she sleeps better if you let her tuck her face under something,” I add. “A towel. A shirt. Whatever. Also, talk to her. Doesn’t matter what you’re saying. She just…” My voice catches for half a second. I clear my throat. “She listens.”
Pussy squirms, meowing softly, and I tighten my hold without thinking.
“She gets anxious in new places,” I say, lower now. “If she hides, don’t force her out. Just sit nearby. She’ll come to you when she’s ready.”
The tech’s expression goes soft. “It’s only one night.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “I know.”
Whitney’s gaze flicks to me. Just a quick check-in.
I tighten my grip around the cat burrito in my arms. “These are all observations. She’s not—she’s not really mine.”
Dr. Byrd gives me a look that says she has heard this speech from every person who has ever been chosen by a stray. “That’s fine,” she says. “But she’s here with you. So I’m going to treat her like she is.”
Pussy meows like she agrees.
Traitor.
The tech reaches for her, and she immediately goes limp against my chest like she’s never been loved in her life.
Dr. Byrd smiles. “We’ll call you if anything changes. Otherwise, tomorrow afternoon.”
I swallow. “Okay.”
The tech takes Pussy gently, and the second she’s out of my arms my shirt feels cold. Too light.
Whitney nudges my shoulder. “Hey. She’ll be okay.”
I shrug my shoulders, like I’m shaking off a bad race. “Yeah, I know.”
She smiles—soft and sure, with zero pity. “Come on,” she says. “Let’s go get food.”
My first instinct is to say no.
Not because I don’t want to.
Because I want to. Too much.
Avoid complications, Leo’s voice cuts in, dry and familiar. Keep your head down. Don’t add variables.
And Whitney, standing this close, offering company like it’s nothing, feels like the biggest variable of all.
Hanging out with her means noticing everything. The way her mouth curves when she’s amused. The way my body goes alert every time she’s within arm’s reach. It means trusting myself not to cross lines I’ve already blurred.
It means risk.
I blink, finally turning to her. “You don’t have to—”
“I know,” she says easily. “But I want to.”
It’s nice she frames it as a choice, not an obligation.
Going home right now would mean an empty house. No cat curled up on my chest to responsible for. Only the quiet and too much space to think.
And with Pussy gone for the night, it hits me—she’d been an anchor for me. In a practical way. A small, needy problem that gave my brain something to fix that wasn’t swimming, and wasn’t Whitney, and wasn’t the mess I keep trying not to look at too closely.
Now that anchor’s sitting in a kennel with an IV bag.
Which leaves me alone with my thoughts.
Compared to that, food with Whitney feels manageable. Neutral. Safe-ish. A distraction I can pretend isn’t a lifeline.
I give a slow nod; already aware I’m ignoring good advice. “Okay.”
Her smile widens just a touch, like she knows she won something but isn’t going to brag about it.
And just like that—quietly, without fanfare—she gives me the distraction I desperately need.