Chapter 6 Sleepless and Spiraling
Sleepless and Spiraling
“What do you think it’s about?” Sara asks quietly. She looks as exhausted as I feel after my midnight drive to the cliffs. After watching Zayn through the rain-streaked window of The Daily Grind.
“No idea,” I lie. Really, I’m mentally running through at least seventeen catastrophic possibilities, like one of those carnival wheels that never lands on anything good.
The clinic door feels heavier than usual as I push it open.
The familiar antiseptic smell hits me, but there’s something else—coffee brewing, stronger than normal, like someone made extra knowing we’d all need the caffeine.
The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, too harsh for this early hour, making everyone look washed out and sickly.
Jen from reception is already here, no makeup, hair yanked back in a hasty bun. The weekend vet tech—the quiet guy whose name I can never remember—stands by the water cooler, gnawing his thumbnail. Two kennel attendants huddle in the corner, whispering.
“Break room,” Jen says when she spots us, her voice strained. “Dr. Martinez is waiting.”
The break room is packed. Eight of us crammed between the mini fridge and the ancient microwave that burns popcorn without fail.
I end up pressed against the bulletin board with Sara squeezed beside me, our shoulders touching.
Thumbtacks from vacation photos dig into my back.
My palms are slick with sweat. I wipe them on my scrubs, leaving dark streaks.
Dr. Martinez stands at the front, looking smaller than I’ve ever seen her.
Her usually perfect bun is coming loose, strands escaping around her face.
The dark circles under her eyes suggest she hasn’t slept.
She clutches a manila folder against her chest like it’s the only thing keeping her upright.
Her hands quiver—something I’ve never witnessed before, not even during the most complicated surgeries.
“Thank you for coming in early,” she says, her voice steady even though her hands aren’t. “I wouldn’t have called you all in if it wasn’t urgent.”
The floor disappears beneath me. In my romance novels, this is where the struggling business owner would inherit money from a long-lost relative. But Dr. Martinez’s expression tells me this isn’t that kind of story. This is the other kind.
“I received a letter yesterday,” she continues, opening the folder and extracting a document with an official-looking letterhead. “Our landlord is selling the building.”
No one speaks. We’re all waiting for the rest, because there’s always more bad news coming.
“The new owners have different plans for the property. They’re willing to let us stay…” Dr. Martinez pauses, her throat working as she swallows hard. “But they’re tripling the rent.”
The words hit me hard. My stomach plummets through the floor. My hands turn ice-cold. A sharp pain lances behind my left eye—the beginning of what I know will be a brutal headache.
“How long do we have?” Jen asks, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Three months,” Dr. Martinez says. “If we can’t find a solution by then…”
She trails off. She doesn’t need to finish. We all understand. Bellrose Veterinary Clinic will close. My safe haven. The one stable thing I’ve built since Zayn left. Gone.
Everyone erupts at once.
“What if we relocate?”
“Could we get a business loan?”
“My cousin owns commercial property we might be able to rent…”
They’re all throwing out suggestions like they’re tossing lifelines to someone drowning.
I stand there, frozen. I can’t move. I can’t speak.
All I can think about is what comes next—not just for me but for the animals.
Mrs. Donovan’s elderly dachshund who only trusts Dr. Martinez to examine his sensitive ears.
The feral cats we’ve been trapping, neutering, and releasing.
Jasper the tabby and Max the golden retriever and all the pets who depend on us.
I hear them through the walls—a dog whimpering softly in the kennels, a cat’s cage rattling as it paces. They don’t know their world is about to collapse too.
“I’ll meet with each of you individually today to discuss options,” Dr. Martinez says, and her voice snaps me back to the present. “For now, let’s try to maintain normalcy for the animals.”
The meeting dissolves. People move around me in what feels like slow motion, their faces blurred like I’m viewing them from underwater.
Sara squeezes my arm before following Jen out, asking questions I can’t focus enough to process.
I stay rooted in place, staring at the coffee maker as it continues dripping into an already-full pot, overflow sizzling against the hot plate.
“Sophie.” Dr. Martinez’s voice is gentle. “Can you come to my office for a minute?”
I follow her down the hallway, past exam rooms where scared pets come to heal, past the surgery suite with its gleaming equipment.
Her office is small and cluttered in the best way—stacks of veterinary journals, framed diplomas hanging slightly crooked, photos of successful cases pinned everywhere.
A coffee mug on her desk reads “The Best Kind of Doctor Treats Patients With Paws.” I bought it for her last Christmas.
She closes the door and sinks into her chair, suddenly looking a decade older. “I stayed up all night running numbers,” she says, gesturing at the spreadsheets covering her desk. “I don’t have anywhere near enough capital to purchase the building outright. And other commercial spaces in Bellrose…”
“Are just as expensive,” I finish for her.
She nods, and for the first time since I’ve known her, I watch her composure crack.
Her eyes glisten with unshed tears. “It’s not just about us losing our jobs, Sophie.
It’s all the animals we won’t be able to help.
The shelter’s already at capacity. The nearest affordable vet is forty minutes away.
Some people just won’t make that drive.”
Pain lances through me. I think of Mia, how no one would have adopted her without this clinic’s intervention. How many more dogs like her will have nowhere to turn?
“What about legal options?” I blurt out. “Like, tenant rights? Or zoning regulations that might protect us?” The words tumble out before I can stop them. I sound like I’m grasping at straws, and from Dr. Martinez’s expression, she knows it too.
She reaches across the desk and takes my hand. Her palm feels warm against my cold fingers. “Oh, mija,” she says softly, using the Spanish endearment she only brings out for emotional moments. “You’re welcome to look into it. But I’ve already consulted two attorney friends.”
I nod, even though I’m probably making promises I can’t keep.
But I can’t bear the thought of losing this place.
This is where I belong. Where I know exactly who I am and what I’m supposed to do.
I’ll research legal precedents all night if I have to.
I’ll scout alternative locations. Whatever it takes.
Then his face flashes through my mind uninvited. Dark hair. Blue-gray eyes. Expensive suit. Law degree framed on his wall.
Absolutely not. No way. I’d let the clinic close before I’d ask Zayn Blackwell for help.
…Right?
My laptop glows in my dark bedroom, illuminating the disaster I’ve created.
I’m sitting cross-legged on my bed, surrounded by chaos—printouts of commercial rental listings, photos of potential properties, and legal documents I can barely comprehend.
My head throbs from my temples all the way down to where my neck meets my shoulders.
Four empty coffee mugs crowd my nightstand because I’ve been mainlining caffeine after getting maybe two hours of sleep last night.
Mia is curled at my feet, anchoring me to reality while I scroll through yet another California tenant rights website that’s absolutely useless.
“Landlords must provide sixty days’ notice for rent increases,” I mutter, reading aloud. “But they gave us ninety, so that doesn’t help.” I click another link. More legal jargon. More words that blur together until they stop making any sense.
My eyes burn from staring at screens too long.
I’ve been at this for hours since getting home from my shift.
I spent the entire day worrying—while administering vaccines, trimming nails, assisting with an emergency surgery on a cat who’d swallowed a hair tie.
I kept my hands steady for the animals, but my mind wouldn’t stop spinning, searching for solutions.
Every commercial property I’ve found is either too small, too far from town, or priced so high it makes the current rent look reasonable.
Every legal website seems like it was designed to confuse regular people who just want straight answers.
Is there any loophole we can exploit? Any obscure regulation that might save us?
I grab my notepad and scrawl “eminent domain???” then immediately cross it out.
That’s for government seizure of land for highways and public projects, not saving veterinary clinics.
I crumple the page and lob it at my trash can.
It misses, joining the growing pile of failed ideas littering my floor.
Mia’s head pops up, ears perked a split second before my door swings open. Sara breezes in without knocking, smelling like ocean air and the greasy fries from that food truck down by the harbor.
“Hey, you,” she says, kicking off her shoes. They thud heavily against my floor. “Have you eaten actual food today, or are you surviving on pure caffeine?”
I don’t look up from my screen. “I had a granola bar.”
“That was yesterday.” She flops onto my bed, sending papers scattering. Mia huffs indignantly but doesn’t move from her spot. “What are you even doing?”
“Trying to find a way to save the clinic.” My voice comes out thin and exhausted. “Did you know commercial rent in Bellrose is nearly as expensive as San Francisco? It’s insane.”
Sara props herself up on her elbows, studying me. Her blonde ponytail has mostly come undone, and her cheeks are flushed from the cold night air. She looks well-rested, which makes me irrationally jealous.
“You look like death,” she says bluntly. “And this…” she gestures at the papers scattered across every surface, “isn’t accomplishing anything.”
“Thanks for the encouragement.” I click on another useless link. More incomprehensible legal terminology that makes my headache worse.
“Have you considered asking Zayn for help?”
My fingers freeze on the keyboard. I go completely still. The room suddenly feels colder, and my pulse pounds loud in my ears. My jaw clenches so hard my teeth hurt.
“I’d rather let the clinic close than ask him for anything.”The words shoot out of my mouth before I can think.
But something must flicker across my face. Something Sara catches immediately. That’s what happens when you live with someone who knows all your tells.
“Really?” She raises one eyebrow in that knowing way she has. “Because your face is telling a completely different story.”
“What are you talking about?” I snap, hitting the keyboard harder than necessary. The spacebar makes a weird protesting click.
“You’re doing that thing where your mouth says one thing but your eyes say another.” She sits up fully and pushes my laptop closed, forcing me to look at her. “He’s an attorney, Sophie. A good one, according to everyone in town. And the clinic desperately needs someone who understands the law.”
“The clinic needs a miracle,” I mutter, trying to reopen my laptop.
Sara keeps her hand firmly planted on the screen. “And what if that miracle happens to have tattoos and blue-gray eyes?”
My stomach does an uncomfortable flip. I hate that she’s right.
I hate that after hours of frantic research, the answer has been staring me in the face all along.
It’s exactly like one of those romance tropes—heroine needs hero’s specialized expertise, they’re forced to work together, old feelings resurface, everything works out perfectly in the end.
Except this is real life. In real life, asking your ex for help just makes you feel pathetic and desperate.
In real life, you don’t get to save the clinic and get the guy.
“I can handle this without him,” I say, finally shoving her hand away and flipping my laptop open again. The harsh screen light makes the dark circles under my eyes look even worse.
Sara sighs but relents. That’s her strategy—she drops an idea in your head and then just lets you think about it. She knows if she pushes too hard, I’ll just dig in harder out of sheer stubbornness.
“There’s pasta in the fridge,” she says, standing up. “Eat something besides coffee before you pass out on your keyboard.”
After she leaves, closing the door softly behind her, I stare at my screen without actually seeing it.
The words swim and blur, but not from exhaustion.
It’s because Zayn keeps invading my thoughts.
His face at The Daily Grind. Those roses he planted at our spot on the cliff.
The image of him working late at the coffee shop, tie loosened, hair disheveled, completely absorbed in whatever case he was building.
I imagine walking into his office. Having to ask for his help. Having to swallow every ounce of my pride. Everything inside me revolts thinking about it.
I attack the keyboard harder, like I can force a solution to appear through sheer determination. Like I can magically discover some loophole that doesn’t require crawling back to the one person who knows exactly how to hurt me.
The clinic needs help. The animals need help. Dr. Martinez needs help.
But why does it have to be him?
My fingers hover shakily over the keyboard.
Before I can stop myself, I open a new tab and type “Hargrove & Associates Bellrose.” Their professional website loads.
I click on “Our Team” and there he is—Zayn Blackwell, Associate Attorney.
He looks so serious in his headshot, nothing like the guy with the easy smile I remember.
I stare at his photograph far too long, feeling like my chest might crack open from all the conflicting emotions warring inside it.
I close the tab fast. Not yet. Not unless there’s absolutely no other option.