22. Honoria #2
Her gaze met mine. “Your color shifts to a really ugly green when you lie.”
“Does it?”
She nodded slowly.
It took me a moment to piece together how she knew. “I suppose you’ve talked to your brother.”
“Only once. He’s been running himself ragged since. Why?”
That accusation in her voice hurt. “I don’t know.” Maybe I did know, but I couldn’t expect or assume anything. Could I?
Her gaze dropped again. “You’re all rainbows down there.”
I took a step back, off balance and covering myself and my shame. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what? Tell you that my niece or nephew is beautiful?” Her jaw quivered.
Mine did, too. But I refused to think along those lines.
When I finally got my emotions under control, I spoke without thinking. “What happens when that light goes out?” I squinted because she needed to face some brutal reality. There would be no niece or nephew.
She searched the air around me. Her gaze scanned me from head to toe. It was uncomfortable and unwelcome. And frustrating.
“Well? Have you ever watched someone die?”
“I’ve seen more death than you can imagine.” She circled her hand around the room, indicating the cages and the pens. “Every day lately.”
I was being selfish. “I so sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”
“It’s hard to think about others when you’re in panic mode.”
I found a nearby chair and planted my butt on it.
Molly nudged my hand, begging for pets. I scratched her ears and tried to break my emotions into little parts so I could deal with each piece, one at a time.
The floodgates holding the rest back were strained.
The tension of it bottled up around my spine and crept around my throat like a set of invisible hands.
“Wombat was going to buy you the Plan B kit, but he never did, did he?”
I shook my head. “I told him not to.”
Her mouth tightened. “You want to be pregnant, don’t you?”
No.
Yes.
And no, that wasn’t what I really wanted.
“I want to be a mother.” I dropped Molly’s leash to cover my face.
I didn’t dare touch my eyes because the tears hanging there would spill free, but I covered the silent scream of terror I was holding back.
Molly laid her jaw on my leg. Her eyes rolled up to watch me.
I couldn’t console her, though. I was barely hanging onto myself.
How would I ever be capable of taking care of someone else if I couldn’t take care of my own dog?
More than anything, that broke me out of the spiral of anxiety, and I shoved everything back into their morgue of lost desires. She sighed and let me scratch her ears.
“Here. Be careful to keep the heating pad in place.” Lemon laid a bundle of towels on my lap and then handed me a syringe. Inside the burrito of warmth was a tiny kitten. Molly took interest, smelling the syringe, then the opening.
That got a little cry from the kitten. It was barely able to squeeze out sound. And that meager noise was raspy and weak. “What do I do?”
“Squeeze out the formula one drop at a time. Make sure the kitten is getting it into their mouth and that it doesn’t go in or come out their nose. You don’t want them to aspirate. Take your time.”
I did as told. The little thing barely got a drop of the tube swallowed. “It’s not eating.”
“We don’t expect it to last the night.”
How horrifying. “Why did you do this to me?”
“We need the hands. Things die. But not if we can help it. Try harder. Here.”
She took the syringe from me and showed me how to get the kitten to respond.
It felt like hours later that the dropper was finally empty and the kitten was returned to a little cave of heating pad, soft blankets, and a heartbeat simulator so it wouldn’t feel alone. I stared at it, watching it sleep.
“You should go home.”
Wombat’s voice made me realize the room had lost its usual bustle without Lemon in it. Molly napped at my feet. She hadn’t done more than move an ear when Wombat spoke. “I was watching the kitten.”
“Hum.”
“Why are you here? It’s Friday, don’t you have stuff with your club?”
He hesitated. “They’re throwing a party. It’s not mandatory.”
Fly was gone, how could it not be? He was lying. “I could have sworn you once said Friday’s are mandatory.”
“Not during kitten seasons. Not for me, anyway.”
I looked around at the quiet cages. “Don’t you want to go to your party?” He should. He was young. That’s what you do.
“Maybe I want you to come with me?”
I shouldn’t. Stephen’s nudge to not turn down an invitation raised its ugly head. “Are you sure you want your club’s lawyer killing the mood?”
He smiled. “You might have fun. It’s for Saint Patrick’s Day. The ol’ ladies went all out.”
“Old ladies…?”
“That’s a term of affection. Like…” Whatever he was going to say trailed off.
“Say it.”
He grimaced. “You won’t like it. Any of it.”
That was a challenge. “Lay it on me.”
“You asked for it. And I suppose you’d better hear it from me first before some idiot slurs it in your face. Let’s start with, ’sweet butt.’ That’s for women in general. Especially if they’ve got an ass.” His eyes dipped.
“And?”
“There’s sweet tits and babe, which I know you don’t like.”
True.
“And Little Mama.” He braced.
“Why do they say that?”
“Because it elevates the woman from someone they want to fuck into someone they’d like to have kids with.”
Interesting. A little blip of anger and other emotions broke free, and I shoved it away. “And Old Ladies?”
“Ol’ ladies. Most of them ain’t old when they start being one, but yeah. Ol’ ladies are the women you want to grow old with.” He hid his face right after he glanced at my eyes.
“It’s a hierarchy. Correct?”
His nod grew more certain. “You’re definitely ol’ lady material.” He licked his lips and met my eyes straight on.
“I am? I would think Sweet Butt or—” I couldn’t say it.
“No. Even if you can’t have kids.”
I was missing something. “What are you saying?”
He blew out a breath. “I’m saying even if you aren’t pregnant or can’t stay pregnant, I want you. I’ll want you for a long time.”
Oddly, his words didn’t move me. I parsed through them like they were witness testimony. My emotions were so detached I couldn’t feel anymore. I didn’t want to feel. And that was the hardest part of this. He wanted. I didn’t.
No.
To be truthful. I wouldn’t…feel. Because if I did, I’d be opening myself up to the one thing that would kill me.
Or make me wish I were dead.
There was only one thing to do. Lie. “You’ve convinced me. I’ll go.”