15. Sebastian
Sebastian
“Stop that owl!”
The woman’s voice pierces through the antiseptic-scented air of the clinic. I whirl around, ducking just as a barred owl swoops over my head, its talons barely missing my hair. The bird lands on the filing cabinet with a thud that rattles the metal drawers, its dark brown eyes wild with panic.
Why there’s an owl in my office at nine in the morning, I don’t have the energy to question. That’s just Tuesday at Pine Island Veterinary Clinic. The familiar chaos used to energize me—now it feels like another weight pressing down on already tired shoulders.
A woman bursts through the doorway, her fleece jacket covered in pine needles and what looks suspiciously like owl droppings. Her eyes mirror the bird’s desperation. “I found it in my yard this morning. It wouldn’t fly away when I approached.”
The owl mantles its wings, hissing like a cat.
Even from here, I can see the awkward angle of its right wing—not broken, but definitely compromised.
The way it holds the wing slightly extended tells me everything I need to know.
“Apparently it can fly enough to terrorize my office, but you’re right.
Probably can’t make it back to the trees. ”
I grab a thick towel from the shelf, the terry cloth rough against my palms. The bird tracks my movements, clicking its beak in warning. Like most injured animals, it doesn’t understand I’m trying to help. Story of my life lately—trying to fix everything, appreciated by no one.
The towel lands perfectly, and I scoop the protesting owl into a carrier in one practiced motion.
Its talons scrape against the plastic bottom, the sound like fingernails on a chalkboard.
Out in the waiting room, there’s already an owner waiting with a mange-riddled terrier while somewhere in the back, metal shelves crash to the floor—probably courtesy of the feral cat we’re trying to socialize.
I shake off my melancholy and help my staff get the office back in order.
By the time we’ve treated the owl, dealt with two sick beagles who got into their owner’s chocolate stash, and extracted porcupine quills from an overly curious golden retriever’s nose, my scrubs smell like a combination of wet dog, vomit, and that particular eau de tomcat that never quite washes out.
Finally, blessed quiet descends on the clinic.
My staff disperses for lunch, leaving me alone in my office with paperwork that seems to multiply when I’m not looking.
Through the window, I can see the supply shed where Flick and I had our first real date.
The memory hits like a sucker punch—her laugh echoing off the wooden walls, the way she’d looked at me like I was something special instead of just another workaholic vet who couldn’t maintain a relationship.
We’ve been texting since I left her yesterday, curled up in bed looking so small and fragile it made my chest tight. All I’d wanted was to climb in beside her, to hold her until the pain passed. It killed me to leave her there, even though I had other things vying for my attention.
Bringing her items like ginger ale and hot water bottles is all good, but I wish I could help in a more substantial way.
Pushing paperwork to the side, I pick up my phone and give her a call. With every ring, my chest grows tighter. It’s not like she can pass out or anything from rheumatoid arthritis, but I still worry that if she doesn’t answer, it means something is terribly wrong.
“Hi.” Her voice, when it finally comes, sounds stronger than yesterday.
“Hey.” I exhale in relief. “How are you?” I try to keep my voice casual, like I haven’t been running through worst case scenarios for the past minute.
“I’m feeling a lot better. How are you?” A car door slams in the background on her end.
I frown. “Are you out?”
And, if so, why? She needs to be at home resting. I can grab her anything she might need.
I’m about to tell her so, but she’s already responding. “Yeah, I’m going into Knit Happens.”
“To work?”
“Only for a few hours.” She pauses. “Hannah needs the help, and I’ll be fine. Don’t worry. I really am doing better.”
I rub my brow. “Okay. Do you need me to bring anything to you while you’re there? Some lunch? Or?—”
An explosion of snarls and barks erupts in the hallway, drowning out whatever I was going to offer. The sound of claws scrabbling on linoleum follows.
“One second,” I tell Flick, already moving toward the door.
Two German Shepherd littermates have decided the hallway is the perfect place for a wrestling match, their leashes tangled around poor Jenna’s legs. Their owner stands frozen, clutching an empty collar while one of the dogs play-bows and the other tries to make a break for the exit.
By the time I help wrangle them into an exam room, precious minutes have passed. I sprint back to my office, nearly slipping on a suspicious wet spot near the door.
“Sorry,” I pant into the phone. “Dogs, you know.”
Her laugh is like warm honey. “I heard. Thank you for offering to bring me lunch, but I have some soup. I’m good. Plus, you sound like you have your hands full.”
Understatement of the century. But I’d drop everything in a heartbeat if she needed me. That’s the problem—I’m starting to realize I’d drop everything for her, period. And that terrifies me more than any aggressive patient ever could.
“Are you at work all day?” she asks.
“Yeah.” The guilt sits heavy in my stomach. “After I’m done here, I have a shift at the emergency clinic. And I need to get my presentation together for this conference I’m going to.”
Even as I list my obligations, I can hear Ben’s voice from our last conversation: You hide behind your work, Sebastian. Always have, ever since Jessica left.
“That sounds like fun.”
“Maybe.” I shrug, even though she can’t see it. The conference will be three days of networking and presentations, every moment scheduled.
I consider inviting her to come with me, then immediately dismiss the idea. She’d be bored out of her mind listening to presentations on advanced surgical techniques and practice management. Plus, I’ll barely have time to sleep, let alone be decent company.
“I’m at the shop,” she says, her voice pulling me back. “I should get inside.”
“Of course.” The conversation is too short.
Everything with her feels too short. But I can’t stop myself from adding, “Hey, I have some time between my shift here and when I need to be at the emergency clinic. Do you mind if I stop by and install those security cameras you ordered? It’ll make me feel better to know they’re up and running when I’m out of town for the conference. ”
There you go again , the voice observes. Trying to fix everything. Control everything.
But I can’t help it. The thought of her alone in that house with some creep potentially watching...
“Yes, that would be great. I’ll see you later?” The relief and gratitude in her voice soothes something raw inside me.
“See you later.”
After hanging up, I sit in the sudden quiet of my office.
The computer screen glows with spreadsheets for the animal sanctuary—another project, another way to stay busy.
The numbers blur together as I stare at them.
Still short. Still need more donors. Still need to convince Lil to give me more time.
Sighing, I rub between my eyebrows, where a headache is forming. When did my dream project start feeling like just another obligation?
My phone rings, breaking into my thoughts. Ben’s name flashes on the screen.
“Hey,” I answer, putting it on speaker so I can pretend to work while we talk.
“Hey, man. Do you have anyone you can recommend for some part-time hours over here? We’re understaffed.”
“Me too.” I laugh, but it sounds hollow even to my ears.
“Damn.”
“Yeah.” I lean back, the chair creaking under my weight. “Sorry.”
“You good?”
“What do you mean?” I deflect, dropping my hands from where I’d been rubbing my temples.
“It’s a pretty straightforward question.” His voice carries that particular brand of brotherly concern that always sets my teeth on edge.
“I’m dealing with a lot,” I snap. “The owner of the land I’ve been looking at wants the money sooner—something she just dropped on me yesterday.”
“Can you do that?”
“No... Well, maybe. I don’t know.” The words tumble out, revealing more than I intended.
“You know, Sebastian, it won’t be the end of the world if you need to pause this project.”
The suggestion hits like a physical blow. How can he even suggest that? He knows how long I’ve been planning this. He knows what it means to me.
Or does he? When’s the last time we really talked about anything beyond surface level?
“Seriously?” The word comes out sharp enough to cut.
“What?”
“You know how long I’ve been planning this. Yes, Ben, of course postponing it matters. I need to?—”
“You don’t need to do anything, Sebastian, and frankly, you’re obsessed with this project. Obsessed.”
Heat floods my face. Because he’s right.
I am obsessed. Obsessed with staying busy.
Obsessed with having a purpose beyond the crushing routine of work-sleep-work.
Obsessed with proving that I’m more than just the guy whose wife left because he couldn’t fix her depression no matter how hard he tried.
“Is this why you called me up? Just to criticize me?”
“No. I called you to invite you to a cookout at my house tomorrow. I already knew you wouldn’t come, but I figured, what the hell? I should extend the invite anyway. Make you know that I still care.”
The words sting because they’re true. How many invitations have I turned down? How many times have I chosen work over family, projects over people?
Just like I did with Jessica.
“I need to go,” I mutter, the parallel too painful to examine. “I’m not trying to be an ass. I just—I’ve got to get back to work. Thanks for the invite. I’m sorry I can’t make it.”
I hang up before he can respond, before he can voice the disappointment I know is there.
The spreadsheet mocks me from the computer screen.
All these numbers, all this planning, and for what?
So I can have another excuse to work eighteen-hour days?
So I can avoid dealing with the fact that I’m thirty-five, divorced, and my only meaningful relationship is with a ferret who steals car keys?
“Eeeek!” A scream echoes down the hallway, followed by the distinctive crash of medical supplies hitting the floor.
I squeeze my eyes shut, counting to ten. Then I stand, straighten my scrubs, and head toward the chaos. Because that’s what I do. I fix things. I solve problems. I stay busy.
Even if it’s killing me.
The afternoon sun slants through my windshield as I pull up to Flick’s house, the security cameras sitting in their box on my passenger seat.
My scrubs still carry the evidence of the day—fur, suspicious stains, and the lingering scent of anal gland expression that no amount of Febreze can quite conquer.
But I’m here. I showed up. That has to count for something.
She opens the door before I can knock, and my breath catches. Even tired, even in pain, she’s beautiful.
“Hi.” Her smile could power the entire island.
“Hi yourself.” I lean down to kiss her, a quick brush of lips that’s nowhere near enough.
“I know you don’t have a lot of time between shifts, so thank you so much for coming to do this.”
“Of course. I think it will give us both some peace of mind.” What I don’t say: I need to know you’re safe when I can’t be here. I need to do something, anything, to help.
She nods toward the kitchen. “I’ve put a few things out I thought might help.”
I grab the supplies and a step stool, hyperaware of her presence as she follows me to the front door. The drill feels heavy in my hands, weighted with more than just its physical mass.
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Her teasing skepticism makes me smile despite the knot in my chest.
I widen my eyes in mock offense, grateful for the lightness. “Hey, you’re looking at the man who once installed cameras for an entire barn at my parents’ petting zoo. Granted, that was mostly to catch which goat kept escaping and eating Mom’s vegetable garden, but the principle’s the same.”
Her laugh fills the small entryway. “Well, if it works for escape artist goats, I guess it’ll work for me.”
I work steadily for a while longer. The familiar rhythm of physical work soothes something in me. This is simple. Straightforward. Drill goes in wall. Camera gets mounted. Problem solved.
If only everything else was this easy.
“All done with this one. Did you download the app?”
She hands me her phone, the app already open. A few taps bring up the crystal-clear feed of her front porch. The image quality is excellent—good enough to identify anyone who approaches.
“Wow, that’s impressive,” she says, leaning over my shoulder. Her shampoo smells like vanilla and something floral. I want to turn, to pull her against me, to forget about emergency shifts and conferences and all the obligations pulling me away.
Instead, I clear my throat. “I’ll set up one more at the back door, just to be extra safe. You’ll get an alert on your phone whenever motion is detected near either camera.”
“Thank you,” she whispers, and something in her voice makes me stop.
I pull her into a hug. She melts against me, her head fitting perfectly under my chin. “You don’t have to thank me. I’m just glad you trusted me with all of this.”
Even if I don’t trust myself .
Too soon, my phone buzzes with a reminder about my shift. I pull away reluctantly, already calculating the drive time to the emergency clinic.
“I have to go,” I say, hating the words.
She nods, understanding in her eyes. “I know. Go save some animals.”
As I drive away, I watch her in my rearview mirror, standing in her doorway. The new camera blinks its LED light above her head, a small guardian in the gathering dusk.
At least I fixed this one thing. At least she’ll be safe while I’m gone.