11. Willa
CHAPTER ELEVEN
WILLA
Iarrived early, wanting to give myself time to check a few things at my desk and get ready.
The break room was quiet when I pushed through the door. I made coffee first and drank a cup standing at the counter because sitting down felt too permanent. The kettle went on next. I pulled down the mug Traig always used and placed the container of cookies I’d made in the center of the table.
Chocolate chip.
Nine-thirty came with the sound of boots on the hallway.
I was refilling my mug when the door opened.
Traig stepped inside, his hair tied back, his tablet tucked under one arm.
His gaze found me first, before the cookies, before anything else in the room.
“You’re here,” he said.
“You asked me to be.”
Crossing the room, he set his tablet down and picked up the container with both hands. He held it against his chest like it was his new best friend.
The kettle clicked off.
I turned to pour his tea, my throat too tight for words.
When I set the mug in front of him, he was still holding the container.
“You made these,” he said.
“I did.”
“For me.”
“For us. For today. There’s enough for the family if they’d like a few.”
“Thank you.”
We sat down, the container between us like a treaty.
He opened it slowly, took a cookie, and ate it in one bite.
“Good?” I asked.
“Very.”
He finished the cookie and reached for another, but his hand stilled halfway. He patted his pocket, where I would swear he’d tucked an envelope, then tugged his tablet close, leaning over it.
“There’s something I need to tell you,” he said. “About this afternoon.”
My pulse kicked up. “Okay.”
He opened a file and turned the tablet so I could see.
“A family sent word about Rue. They want to meet her.”
I read through it and laid the tablet down carefully.
“When did this come in?” I asked.
“A few days ago.”
The word landed hard in my chest.
“A few days ago?” I said. “And you’re just telling me now.”
His jaw worked. “You’re right.”
I set my mug down carefully, needing to stop myself from throwing it. “We’re supposed to be handling things like this together. That’s what ‘beside me, not beneath me’ means.”
“I was trying to decide—”
“Without me.” The words came out soft, but each one cost me something. “You made a decision without me. Or you tried to. For days.”
I looked away, staring at the cookie container between us. I’d made those for him. Stood in my kitchen thinking about what he liked.
He’d been keeping this from me the whole time.
“I spent five years with Derek,” I said quietly. “Five years where I organized his life, fixed his problems, and never once was invited to make a real decision with him. He’d just tell me what he’d already decided and expected me to make it work.”
I forced myself to meet Traig’s eyes.
“You told me I wasn’t beneath you. That we’d do things together. And the first time something important comes up, you process it alone for days before deciding to tell me the morning of the meeting.”
His face had gone still in that way that meant he was hearing every word.
“I know you were struggling with it,” I said. “I can see that. But you didn’t trust me enough to struggle with it together.”
He dragged both hands through his hair, dislodging the tie at his nape. “You’re right. I should’ve told you immediately.”
“Yes, you should have.”
“I couldn’t make a decision,” he said, his voice hoarse. “That’s why I’m telling you now. Not because it’s the meeting day and I had to, but because I genuinely can’t do this without you. I don’t want to.”
I wrapped both hands around my mug, the warmth seeping into my palms.
“I’ve been reviewing the information,” he said. “Even last night until past midnight. Checking Fern’s behavior and Rue’s, trying to find something that would tell me you were wrong.”
I let out a long breath.
“But I couldn’t find it,” he added. “Every pattern pointed to what you said. Fern’s appetite drops when Rue’s gone. Her flowers dim. She watches the gate.” He pulled the tablet closer, scrolled through pages of notes. “And if I was wrong about them…”
The implication hung between us.
“Greth found me in the supply room last night,” he said. “I was relabeling things that didn’t need labels.”
Despite everything, my mouth twitched. “What did the supply room do to deserve that?”
His gaze lifted to mine. “Existed while I was avoiding the fact that I trust your judgment more than my own.”
The air went out of my lungs.
I set my mug down before I could drop it.
His fingers curled around the edge of the tablet. He didn’t look at me.
“Traig,” I said softly. I reached across the table and covered his hand with mine.
“I can’t make this decision without you.” His voice dropped. “I don’t want to. And they’ll be here at one this afternoon to meet her.”
He pulled up another document, his working notes from the last three days.
My original observation sat at the top, highlighted in yellow.
Questions followed. What does need mean in behavioral terms? Can distress be measured if the creature doesn’t vocalize?
A 2:14am note said, Talk with Willa before proceeding.
I stared at that note. Two in the morning. He’d known then.
“You wrote that a few nights ago,” I said.
“Yes.”
“And we had our planning meeting each afternoon in between.”
His jaw tightened. “Yes.”
“We sat in the conference room for an hour each day. We ate cookies. We finalized the various things related to the school visit.” I could barely push the words out. “And you didn’t mention this.”
“I was going to—”
“But you didn’t.”
He closed his eyes. “No. I didn’t.”
“I need you to understand something,” I said. “It’s not that you struggled with the decision. It’s that you didn’t think I was worth struggling with it alongside you.”
His eyes opened. “That’s not—”
“That’s what it feels like, Traig. You processed this alone because some part of you still doesn’t believe I’m really your partner in this.
You believe it in theory. You say the right words.
But when it mattered, you kept me out. Either I manage things in this office or I don’t.
You need to step back from the things you’ve delegated to me, things, I’ll add, that you’ve told me I’m qualified to handle.
You need to let me deal with them. I’m sure I’ll make mistakes.
Everyone does. You’ll tell me what I did wrong, and that’s how I’ll learn. ”
He’d been carrying this for days, processing it alone because he’d been afraid of what it meant if I was right. Afraid enough that our partnership came second to his need for control.
“You think they’re bonded too, don’t you?” I said.
“I think I don’t know.” He looked at me directly. “I think my practices aren’t set up to understand what you saw. I think I need you to tell me what you see.”
Everything tilted.
I leaned forward. “It’s not friendship or herd behavior. They need each other.”
He closed his eyes, but he opened them again.
“Let’s see how it goes this afternoon,” he said. “We don’t have to decide now.”
“Okay.”
The first family arrived at ten, two parents in their thirties, two kids under ten bouncing in the back seat.
Traig and I met them at the door, him tightening his spine, me rehearsing how best to show the family what we had to offer while remaining professional. My first in-person chance to show I could handle the human front of the rescue league.
“Welcome to the Creature Rescue League,” I said. “I’m Willa and this is Traig. We’re excited to share the puddlewumps with you.”
The father shook Traig’s hand first, then mine. “Jim Bellows. This is my wife, Samantha, and our kids, Rex and Rina.”
Rina, maybe seven, tugged her mother’s sleeve. “Can we see them now? Please?”
Samantha laughed. “Let’s let the nice people explain things first, okay?”
We walked them through the adoption process while heading toward the puddlewump enclosure. Traig covered their diet, habitat needs, and behavioral quirks.
I handled the softer parts.
“They’re semi-liquid, which means they can squeeze under doors and reform on the other side,” I said. “It’s adorable until you find one in your bathtub at three in the morning.”
Samantha laughed. Jim made a note on his phone.
The puddlewumps were housed in a reinforced pen with a pool and several hiding spots. Two of them, Biscuit and Gravy, because Drogar had named them, sat on a rock, wobbling in the morning sun.
Rina pressed against the fence. “They look like water balloons.”
“They do, right?” I said.
Rex, about nine, looked up at Traig. “Do they bite?”
“No teeth,” Traig said. “They’re filter feeders. Completely safe for handling.”
I opened the gate and stepped inside, crouching near Biscuit.
The puddlewump wobbled toward me, its translucent body catching the light. I scooped it up and carried it to the fence.
“You can touch,” I told Rina.
She reached through the rails, stroking Biscuit’s side.
The puddlewump shivered, rippling from top to bottom.
Rina giggled. “It tickles.”
Traig opened the gate fully to bring out Gravy.
The puddlewump didn’t wobble toward him. It melted. One second it was puddlewump-shaped, the next it was a translucent puddle spreading across the pen floor.
Rex’s eyes went wide. “Is it okay?”
“It’s fine,” Traig said. He crouched, scooping up the liquid with both hands. It dripped between his fingers.
Jim looked at Samantha. Samantha looked at me.
I kept my voice calm. “This happens when they get nervous around new people. Give us just a second.”
I knelt beside Traig. His hands were full of sentient liquid, and I could feel how upset he was.
“Hey.” I waited until his eyes met mine. “Look at me. Not the puddlewump. Me.”
His jaw unclenched by half a degree.
“We can make this right,” I said. “Remember what you told me about reform triggers?”
His gaze snapped to mine.
“Gentle pressure,” he said.
“Right. So let’s do that here.”
I cupped my hands beneath his, catching the overflow. Together, we pressed gently, shaping the liquid back into something solid. Gravy’s form returned slowly, wobbling but whole.
Traig exhaled.
“There you are,” I told Gravy.