12. Chapter Twelve #2
"I can do both." The words come out with a possessive edge that I'm instantly a little embarrassed about. But LSP is my baby. I can't just turn the biggest thing in the history of the rescue over to everyone else. "I already juggle everything else. I'll make it work."
And there it is.
I'm doing it again. Overcompensating. Trying so hard to seem normal and professional that I've swung completely the other way into cold and distant.
I can practically feel Kevin watching me from across the table. Probably wondering what the hell is wrong with me. Probably regretting that he can't call me out on it without everyone knowing why he would.
"Make it work how?" Diane's voice is gentle but firm. "Sweetie, you're already stretched so thin we can see through you. Nobody's saying you can't. We're saying you shouldn't have to choose between burning out and asking for help."
I need to be fully involved. I want to be fully involved. This rescue is my life and has been for years. It's all I know. And this is the biggest opportunity I’ve ever had. "I've been handling things on my own for a long time."
But ouch. That doesn't quite come out like what I meant. The room goes quiet.
I was so nervous about them figuring out what was going on with us that I snapped at him so they wouldn’t know I wanted to jump in his lap and kiss him and tell him thank you properly.
The biggest thing to ever happen to me just happened, and I just sounded like a complete bitch — and an overwhelmed one, at that — to the people who have supported me the most. I need to walk this one back.
Maybe I'm overthinking the situation. Maybe it didn't sound as bad to them as it did to me.
I look at Kevin, trying to anchor myself. His jaw tightens.
Shit. That tells me everything I need to know.
"Sarah," he starts, choosing his words carefully — like I should have. "The brand deal helps the rescue. That's what matters. But Diane's right. Maybe we should talk about—"
"I said I can handle it."
I just snapped again at the guy who's been keeping my rescue afloat with his own money for months. The guy whose dog just landed us a deal that solves all our problems.
The guy I'm sleeping with while pretending we're just friends.
Well, they don't know that part. But I do. And now I feel like total shit.
I was trying so hard to keep our secret. Trying so hard to act normal. Trying so hard not to let anyone see that something's changed between us.
And I went so far in the other direction that I've been a complete bitch to the one person in this room who deserves it the least.
Good grief. My period hasn’t even arrived yet and I’m PMSing harder than a bag of old kibble that hasn’t been sealed.
This is exactly what I was afraid of. That keeping this secret would bleed into everything else. That I wouldn't be able to separate Kevin-my-friend from Kevin-the-guy-I'm-sleeping-with.
And now everyone in this room is looking at me like I've lost my mind and all my ever-loving girl hormones.
Because I have.
"Okay," Father Phil interjects smoothly, bless him. "Let's table this discussion. Sarah, take two weeks to think about what managing Ranger's brand actually looks like day-to-day. Kevin, work with Paige on timeline details. Mark, can you draft a budget assuming we accept the deal?"
"On it," Mark says quickly.
The tone in the room is changing in real time, and I want to ask Father Phil to forgive me for putting me in the position for covering for my bad manners.
"One more thing," Diane adds, still watching me with those too-knowing eyes. "We should plan a capital campaign regardless. Super PawMart solves immediate problems, but we need other avenues of sustainable long-term funding. I'd like to chair that committee if no one objects."
"That would be amazing," I say, grateful for literally anything that moves us past me talking bitchy to Kevin in front of witnesses.
"Good." Diane makes a note. "We'll reconvene in two weeks. Same time work for everyone?"
Nods around the table.
Kevin checks his phone. "I have to head out. Flight to Vegas in—" he glances at his watch, "Ninety minutes. If 183's backed up, I'm cutting it close."
"How long's the road trip?" Father Phil asks.
"Three games. Back Sunday." Kevin's gathering his things, not looking at me. "Sorry to duck out early."
"You fulfilled your board member duties," Diane assures him. "Go. Don't miss your flight."
He stands.
For just a second, his eyes meet mine.
I can see the concern there. The question. The hurt I put there by being so defensive.
And I can't say what I need to say. Can't apologize the way I want to. Can't reach across this table and take his hand and tell him I'm sorry, that I'm scared, that I'm doing everything wrong.
Because we're in a room full of people who can't know.
Because we promised to keep this professional.
Because "no one else finds out" apparently means I have to act like he's just another board member instead of someone who is quickly becoming more to me than I can ever possibly let myself allow.
So basic will have to do. For now.
"Thank you for everything, Kevin. Good luck on the trip," I manage.
"Thanks."
He wants to say more. I can see it in the way he hesitates, hand reaching toward his bag.
Then he just nods and leaves.
And I'm left sitting here with the wreckage of what happens when you try to keep something that important a secret.
Stupid keep-it-secret friends with benefits pact.
Stupid idea that we could separate professional from personal.
Stupid Sarah for thinking she could see Kevin in a suit across a conference table and not want to tell everyone in the room that he's the reason we're not losing the rescue.
That he's the reason for a lot of things.
Diane immediately turns to me with a look I haven't seen since my mom moved to Seattle when I was eighteen. We're having a conversation whether I want to or not.
"Mark, Father Phil — can you give us a minute?"
The men practically trip over themselves escaping.
Smart.
"Okay," Diane says once we're alone. "What's going on with you two?"
"Nothing."
"Sarah. I had cancer, not a lobotomy." She leans forward. "That man looks at you like you like you’re a piece of chocolate cake. You look at him like someone's about to push you out of a plane for your first skydive. What happened?"
My throat gets tight. "We're friends."
"Friends don't look at each other like that."
"It's complicated." And complicated makes you say things you wouldn’t normally say because you’re running every word through an anxiety filter.
Then the result of that is that things become actually complicated — instead of whatever you’ve started thinking in your head.
"Life's too short for complicated." My eyes sting a little as her voice softens. "Trust me on that one. When I got my diagnosis, I had a whole list of things I was waiting to do. Waiting for the right time, waiting to be ready, waiting for permission. Life doesn't wait, Sarah. Neither should you."
"Diane—"
"I'm not saying throw yourself at him in the middle of a board meeting — poor Father Phil would be traumatized." She pats my hand. "But jumping out of planes? I've done it a few times. It's scary as hell. And also pretty amazing once you do it."
I swallow hard. "What if I mess it up?"
"What if you don't?"
By the time I make it upstairs to my apartment, I'm exhausted.
A wave of smell hits me the second I open the door.
Living above Overtime means constant food smells. It’s usually fine, sometimes even good, especially when they're running the Chicken Fried Steak lunch special.
Right now, it's some combination of beer and fryer grease and vinegar-based hot sauce that makes my stomach lurch violently.
I press a hand to my mouth. Breathe through my nose.
It doesn't help.
I was going to take care of some things at home before heading to take care of Ranger. But nope. Can’t do it. Not now.
I grab my overnight bag and start throwing things in: toothbrush, clean underwear, the Stampede t-shirt I've been sleeping in that definitely belongs to Kevin — but he hasn't asked for it back.
Twenty minutes later, I'm letting myself into Kevin's condo with the key he gave me more than a year ago.
That first breath of clean air feels like salvation.
"Wings are disgusting," I tell Ranger, who greets me at the door like I've been gone for years. "Too much grease. Thankfully, your dad can afford less strongly scented real estate than I can."
As I sink down on the couch and Ranger settles for a long scratch behind the ears, my phone buzzes.
??Sunshine
Made it to the plane. Sorry if I overstepped in the meeting.
I feel a twist in my stomach. Guilt. Obviously.
You didn't. I was defensive. I'm sorry.
??Sunshine
You've got a lot on your plate.
It’s just that the rescue is my whole life. Things are coming at me fast.
Good things, but I guess good things can still feel overwhelming.
But I know it will be okay. I’m good at juggling.
??Sunshine
I know you are. Doesn't mean you should have to all by yourself.
You’ve got people who want to help.
I stare at that message for a long time.
It’s okay. Don’t worry about all this now. You’ve got a road trip.
Have a good flight. Win some games.
??Sunshine
I promise everything at the rescue is going to work out.
Plan is definitely to win some games. All of ‘em. You at my place?
Had to escape. The smell from downstairs was too much tonight.
??Sunshine
That bad?
Apparently my tolerance for fried food has limits. Who knew?
??Sunshine
Make yourself at home. There's stuff for smoothies in the fridge if you want breakfast.
Thanks.
Kevin?
??Sunshine
Yeah?
I stare at my phone.
I want to tell him again I'm sorry I was so nervous about them knowing what was going on with us that I snapped at him so they wouldn't know I wanted to jump in his lap and kiss him and tell him thank you properly.
I want him to know that I know he's just trying to help. That having him across from me in that suit made it impossible to think about rescue budgets when all I could remember was how his hands felt on my skin three days ago.