Chapter 36
“Colors” - Halsey
Saylor
“Do you think we’ll ever get used to the smell?” I ask as I clean up the very runny present left by one of the shelter’s newest residents—a small terrier mix with an upset stomach.
Selene looks up from the clipboard in her hands. “I’ve been here for six years and still want to hurl, so I don’t think so.” She blows a bubble with her gum and returns to the form.
I take a deep breath through my mouth and try to not think about what I’m doing as I wipe up the mess. The shelter is full, which only increases the animals’ anxiety. An adoption event is scheduled for this afternoon, so hopefully many of them will find homes.
I wash my hands, then make my rounds greeting everyone. My schedule only allows me to volunteer once a month, so I rarely see the same faces twice. A good sign, even if it’s hard not to get attached.
Stopping at one of the kennels, I squat down until I’m at eye level with a new addition, a solid gray cat whose fur looks as soft as cashmere. A quick glance at the name plaque tells me he’s a male.
“Hi, big boy,” I coo at him.
He walks to the front of the cage and sniffs my hand. That’s when I realize he only has three legs. His gait is lopsided, but he seems to be managing just fine.
I glance over my shoulder at Selene, who is clicking away at the computer keys. “What happened to this guy?” I say.
She looks up long enough to see who I’m talking about before returning to her data entry. “Don’t know. Someone found him beside the road and brought him here.”
My heart shatters into tiny little pieces. Whoever his previous owners were, they didn’t even have the decency to bring him in, just left him outside on his own to die. I bat away the tears that are forming at the corners of my eyes.
Giving the cat an extra scratch behind his ears, I whisper, “Someone wonderful will adopt you today, I just know it.” While disabled animals aren’t for everyone, there are plenty of beautiful souls in the world who have an abundance of love for these special cases.
I’m convinced they’re earthbound angels.
I finish greeting the rest of the animals, then it’s all hands on deck to prepare for the adoption event.
Kennels need to be scrubbed, dogs need to be walked, medications need to be given.
My favorite part, though, is socialization time.
It is crucial for the mental health of the animals, and downright essential for the well-being of Saylor Jones.
I sit on the floor and call the gray cat to me.
He hobbles over on his three legs quite well before snuggling into my lap.
My heart melts into a little puddle on the floor beneath us.
The other animals come and go—some eager for pets and others more interested in the toys—but the gray cat stays curled up on my legs for the entire hour.
When it’s time to put everyone back into their kennels, a pang enters my chest at the thought of parting from my little buddy.
It’s necessary, of course, and I know the rules about getting attached to shelter animals.
It’s not in their best interest—it only makes their transition to a new home that much harder.
But my heart isn’t very good at listening to instructions. The way it plummeted over a cliff for a certain musician is proof of that.
The gray kitty doesn’t look any more excited to be leaving me than I am him, but I reassure him that someone will be coming for him later. I don’t know who could resist that incredibly soft fur or those soulful eyes, but whoever they are, they can’t be human.
There’s a good turnout for Gotcha Day, the shelter’s official name for the adoption event. Over twenty animals find families and leave for better homes than the ones they came from. Unfortunately, the three-legged cat isn’t one of them.
“I can’t believe no one took him,” I tell Selene as we clean up the back room. “He’s a sweetheart.”
She shrugs and pushes the broom across the floor. “I think a lot of people assume a disabled animal will require a lot of extra care.”
I glance over at the cat, who is watching me with those heartbreaking eyes. “Do they? Need extra care?”
Selene stops sweeping to look at the cat. “Not really. He seems to have adapted especially well.”
The kitty’s face seems to say, You promised someone would take me.
I shouldn’t have told him that, but I was so sure he’d be one of the first to be adopted. If I trusted myself to take another animal home, he would be leaving with me tonight. I crouch down in front of his cage. “I’d take you with me if I could.”
He gives a tiny meow, then retreats to the back of the crate. It feels like a rejection, but maybe that’s because he feels rejected. Tears well in the corners of my eyes again, and I quickly wipe them away before Selene can notice and accuse me of forming attachments.
Leaving the shelter that night is harder than it’s ever been before. The gray cat looks at me with those huge eyes, and I hate myself a little at that moment. Why can’t I be the kind of person who can successfully adopt an animal?
Those two weeks with Charlie were some of the best of my life. I looked forward to our daily walks. He slept in my bed—a habit I knew we’d have to break once Nate came home on leave—but I loved having his warm body snuggled up next to mine.
It happened so suddenly. The vet thought he must have caught something at the dog park, because one minute he was fine, and the next he was fighting for his life on the operating table at the animal hospital. They assured me there was nothing I could have done, but I knew the truth.
Saylor Jones’s love is toxic and erodes the lives of the ones she cares about. Better to live half a life than to steal what’s left of someone else’s.
The flat feels especially empty and lonely tonight.
At least I still have a roof over my head, thanks to my job at Donnie P’s—literally the only good thing to come from that place.
The plan is still to quit as soon as possible, but I haven’t found anything better that allows me to make as much.
The pay is shit, but I’ve been able to pick up enough shifts to cover my rent and keep the fridge stocked.
I heat up a bowl of ramen and do my best to ignore the last image of the cat in my mind. He watched me up until the minute I walked out the door, probably wondering if anyone would ever love him. How the fuck am I supposed to recover from that? How will he recover?
Taking my noodles to the sofa, I curl up under the thrifted afghan. I’m keeping the thermostat turned down to save on electricity, so the flat is always cold. But it’s easier to wear an extra pair of socks and a second sweater than it is to make an extra fifty bucks.
Too bad Rhett never paid me for the tour.
I know I would technically be within my rights to ask for it, but I can’t bring myself to.
Contacting him feels like acknowledging that something happened, and right now, the only way for me to survive is to pretend it didn’t.
Pretend he didn’t weasel his way into my heart despite my best intentions.
Pretend I didn’t fall hard for him the exact way I knew I would if given half a chance.
Pretend I don’t still fall asleep remembering how it felt to be in his arms or the way his voice sounded as he quietly sang me to sleep.
I know we would never have worked out, but that knowledge doesn’t lessen the sting of knowing that it’s my fault he walked away. Yet another example of Saylor’s love on display.
I haven’t been able to bring myself to check the news, and I studiously avoid looking at the tabloid headlines when I’m at the grocery store, so I don’t know if my deception ruined his career or if he was able to comeback from it.
I only hope that leaving when I did gave him some kind of redemption with his label.
He doesn’t deserve to have his dream crushed because of me.
Scraping the last bits of ramen from my bowl, I think back to what my mum said a few weeks ago about those who can’t handle your love. Work got busy after that phone call, and I forgot about it until now.
Is she right? If she is, that means my love isn’t toxic at all, but that the people who left weren’t worthy of it.
What about Charlie, though? He obviously deserved all of my love and then some, and it still killed him. He would’ve been better off in the shelter—
I stop and think about that statement. Would he really? Is the little gray cat? Are any of the animals better off in those kennels than in a loving home?
Is it possible that Charlie could still have caught whatever virus he did if he lived with someone else? I chew my bottom lip as I consider this. It’s . . . possible. But if so, that means that the disabled cat would also be better off with me than without me.
I gave the rest of the world a chance, but no one wanted to adopt him. I want him with all my heart. I know I could provide him with a good home, all the love he can possibly hold, and a great life. The only thing stopping me is the belief that by loving him, I’m somehow going to hurt him.
What if I’m . . . wrong? What if I actually hurt him more by leaving him in the shelter than by bringing him home with me?
* * *
The next morning, I’m at the door of the shelter five minutes before they open. Selene looks at me with a cocked brow through the glass as she flips the deadbolt.
“Told you not to get attached,” she tells me as she lets me inside.
“Well, this time it’s for his good,” I say.
He’s even cuter than I remember, tucked into a small ball at the back of his cage. I squat down to greet him, and he lifts his head to look at me. It takes a few seconds of coaxing before he finally hobbles over.
“You haven’t forgiven me for leaving you, have you?” I say, scratching his neck. He purrs into my hand, and my heart turns into a pile of goo.
Selene gives me the paperwork to fill out, and thirty minutes later, I’m walking home with my new best friend in my arms. He doesn’t squirm or try to get down even once, and the reassurance that I’m doing the right thing grows.
I have no idea how I’m going to afford him—cats need food, litter, and toys after all, and I just spent my last paycheck on rent and the few groceries in my fridge. But I’ll sell my sofa if I need to in order to give this guy the best shot at life.
It takes a second to fish my key out of my bag, especially with my arms full of cat. Before I can get the door unlocked, Paula sticks her head out of her flat. She takes one look at the bundle of gray fur and steps into the hallway, her floral kimono belted at her waist.
“What a beautiful baby,” she croons, stroking his head. “What’s his name?”
I blink down at him. I haven’t considered it until now. “Leo,” I say without another thought, wondering how my former PPO would feel about having a cat named after him.
“Leo,” Paula purrs. “How delightful.”
My key turns in the lock, and I shift Leo so he doesn’t fall from the sudden movement.
“I have a bunch of things left from my last foster,” Paula says, jerking a thumb over her shoulder at her own door while keeping one hand on Leo. “Luca is allergic, so you’re welcome to it if you want.”
“Um, sure,” I say, choosing not to comment on the fact that her reborn doll can’t possibly have allergies.
She disappears back into her flat, and I take the opportunity to nuzzle Leo under the chin. His eyes blink closed, and that familiar rumbling starts in the back of his throat.
Paula reappears several minutes later, carrying a pink-striped bag with “Victoria’s Secret” on the side.
I would have been happy going the rest of my life without knowing she shops there, but here we are.
She hands me the bag, and it’s quite heavy.
A quick glance inside reveals a box of canned cat food, a half-full bag of litter, a litter tray, and a bunch of toys.
“Paula, this is too much,” I say, and move to hand it back.
She shakes her head. “Take it. I was going to donate it to a shelter anyway.” Scratching Leo’s head, she murmurs, “This boy deserves it.”
I thank her and shuffle the bag and Leo into the flat. There’s the question of how to afford him answered, at least for the first few weeks. After that, we’ll take it one day at a time.
It might be too late for me and Rhett, but it’s not too late for this boy.