10. Traig
CHAPTER TEN
TRAIG
Aweek had passed since she'd kissed me in the entryway, a week of meetings almost every day now, her cookies never lasting until the next one and my restraint thinning right along with them.
It was Thursday again, and I stood at the window, watching Willa wave from her Jeep before she turned onto the road, when my tablet pinged with an incoming message.
We'd held regular meetings all week, making progress through my to-do list. Eating cookies she made while I tried not to stare at her all the time.
I sat down at my desk, opened my tablet, and read the email.
Subject: Adoption Inquiry - Bloomback (Rue)
My finger hovered over the notification. This was routine. I processed adoption inquiries every week. This one was no different.
I opened it.
The application was thorough. A family, living in southern Maine, was interested in Rue.
They had experience with kingdom creatures, having adopted a snugglethorn the year before.
They had a large property with plenty of grazing space, and they’d included references from two other rescue organizations.
They’d done their research, knew what Bloombacks required, and had specifically requested Rue based on her description.
Rue was independent. She’d make a great addition to their farm. She got along well with snugglethorns.
This family wanted to meet Rue on Saturday afternoon.
I pulled up Rue’s file and compared it to the adoption criteria we’d created. She met every standard.
Then why were my hands shaking?
I set the tablet down and rubbed my palms together.
Fern’s file sat one folder over in the directory.
I opened it, noting again her decreased appetite for two days after separation from Rue.
Her blooms had dimmed to pale yellow. She’d returned to her usual brightness on day three.
So it was temporary and what we’d normally expect when she was separated from a friend she’d been with for months.
They’re bonded whether the data says so or not. I could hear Willa telling me this as if she was standing beside me.
I closed Fern’s file and returned to the application.
We rescued creatures so they could find forever homes. Keeping them here indefinitely wasn’t the goal.
The application required my approval before moving to the next stage.
I read through it again. The family seemed perfect for Rue. Everything pointed to approval.
We already had a family coming on Saturday to see the puddlewumps. We could handle two visits. Or I would if Willa had to leave after the first.
I typed a response: Thank you for your application. Saturday would be fine. How about one in the afternoon?
It wasn’t a decision to let them take Rue. I might not feel they were a good fit for her.
I leaned back in my chair, pressing my clasped hands against my chin. Then I pulled up my message history with Willa, tracing her name on the screen.
I should tell her about the visit on Saturday. This was the kind of decision we should go through together. She deserved to know about an application for Rue.
I opened a message to Willa. My fingers hovered over the screen.
A family wants Rue.
No, that wasn’t the right way to start. Drogar kept saying I needed to approach things slowly, not slice to the chase. Cut to the chase, that is.
We should talk about the bloombacks.
Neutral, but was that the right way to start the conversation?
Unsure, I deleted it and typed again.
I need your thoughts on something.
I stared at the line of words for a while before closing the message without sending it.
This was merely paperwork. I’d process it properly, review all the information, and make a recommendation. That’s what I did with every adoption application. Then I could tell Willa my decision.
The building had gone quiet. Almost everyone had left for the day. I sat in my office with the sounds of the facility settling, from the hum of ventilation to the distant call of a clatterwing from the outdoor enclosure.
I needed to go home.
I stayed at my desk.
A knock on my doorframe made me look up.
Drogar entered, holding a sealed envelope, his usual grin absent. “This came through the underground channel, brought it with today’s supply delivery.”
He set it on my desk.
The wax seal caught the light. Deep crimson, pressed with a crest I’d spent three years trying not to think about.
My family’s mark.
“Do you want me to stay while you read it?” Drogar asked.
I stared at my name written in formal script across the front.
“I can handle it.”
Drogar didn’t move.
“Truly,” I said. “I appreciate you bringing it to me.”
He studied my face and left, pulling the door closed behind him.
I picked up the envelope, balancing the weight of the expensive paper on my palm.
I turned it over in my hands and set it down.
And picked it back up again.
I placed the envelope inside my desk drawer, facedown beneath a stack of supply order forms, and closed the drawer. My office felt smaller all of a sudden, the walls closing in.
I should go home.
Instead, I opened my tablet, loading the school curriculum document. We’d finished a section of it this afternoon, but I still needed to think about safety and how best to communicate with the parents. Liability issues.
Work that needed doing.
I stared at the screen, but the words wouldn’t organize themselves into anything useful.
I closed that document and opened the facility maintenance schedule, everything color-coded by priority level. Green for routine. Yellow for attention needed. Red for urgent.
All green this week.
I changed three entries to yellow and closed the document.
My office felt too large. Too empty. I spoke to the silence.
“She kissed me.”
My voice sounded wrong, too loud and raw.
I kept talking anyway.
“She put her hands on my shoulders when she kissed me.” I scrubbed my face with my palms. “Had she thought about doing it before she reached out?”
It had felt spontaneous. Maybe she regretted it already.
“When she pulled away, she smiled.”
I stopped and listened to my own breathing.
The admission hung in the air, filling the space I usually kept organized and controlled.
Sliding open my desk drawer, I stared at the sealed envelope. The crest stared back at me. I closed the drawer.
I was stuck between the application I should process and the letter I couldn’t open and the woman I wanted to call but wouldn’t because what would I say?
I’m scared I’ve been wrong about everything.
That wasn’t the kind of thing I admitted. Not out loud or in documents or even to myself.
Except I just had.
When I finally left my office, I found the break room empty. I heated water for tea, found some leftover vrindal in the refrigerator, and sat at the table.
Empty chairs all around me. Like the second one in my cottage.
Now I couldn’t stop imagining Willa sitting across from me with a plate of cookies between us and her hair tucked behind her left ear.
My tablet chimed. A notification from the break room coffee maker. Low supplies. Willa had set up automatic alerts last week. She’d programmed them to come to my tablet because she’d noticed I was always the first one in.
She’d been paying attention to me.
I added coffee supplies to tomorrow’s order list and tried not to think about what it meant that she’d been noticing me the same way I’d been noticing her.
I ate the vrindal without tasting it. Drank the tea cold because I’d forgotten it was there.
Finished, I cleaned the dishes, put them away, and went back to my office.
The adoption application was still waiting.
I read through it again and made notes in the margins, rechecking the family’s property specifications with Rue’s needs.
Everything matched.
My hands were steady now. This was familiar territory. I could do this part.
What I couldn’t do was decide.
The cursor blinked at the end of my message I still hadn’t sent Willa.
I’d mention it to Willa Saturday morning. She’d review the family’s qualifications, we’d discuss Fern, and we’d make the final decision together.
I shut down my computer and left for the night.
The next meeting started the same way the others had.
I had coffee waiting at Willa’s spot. Two creams. No sweetener.
She walked in carrying a different container, this one rectangular. When she set it on the table and removed the lid, the smell hit me first.
Sweet.
“Almond sugar cookies,” she said. “With almond icing and sprinkles.”
I reached for one before she’d finished speaking.
The first bite made me close my eyes. Soft. Sweet. The unusual flavor layered through every part of it.
“Good?” she asked.
I opened my eyes to find her watching me, her mouth curved in a smile that made my chest feel too full.
“Very good,” I strangled out.
She took a cookie for herself and pulled her notebook closer. “So. Safety protocols.”
Yes. Work. We were here to work.
I pulled up the document on my tablet, but my attention kept drifting to her hands as she wrote notes. The way she held her pen. The small crease between her eyebrows when she concentrated.
“Traig?”
I blinked. “Yes?”
“I asked if you thought we needed two staff members per classroom or if one would be enough.”
“Two,” I said. “Definitely two. For safety.”
She made a note. “And the parent waiver forms?”
“I’ll draft them tonight.”
“Perfect.” She reached for another cookie, and her eyes brightened as she took a bite. “These are some of my favorites. I usually make them at Christmas, but wanted to share them with you.”
“They’re perfect.”
She looked up at me, cookie halfway to her mouth, and her eyes darkened.
The adoption application sat in my tablet, two folders deep in the directory. I should mention it. This was the time. We were already talking about Saturday. It would be simple to say, A family inquired about Rue. They’re coming Saturday afternoon.
Simple.