18. Sebastian #2
The next three hours blur together in a familiar rhythm. Examine a cat with conjunctivitis. X-ray a limping Border Collie who turns out to have been hit by a car—thankfully just bruising, no breaks. Stitch up a German Shepherd who got too enthusiastic about jumping a fence.
For a while, I lose myself in the work. The adrenaline carries me, each successful treatment a small victory against the chaos. This is what I’m good at. This is where I make a difference.
But as the night wears on and the waiting room stays persistently full, the exhaustion I’ve been holding at bay starts seeping through the cracks. My normally steady suture work takes twice as long. The fluorescent lights feel too bright, too harsh.
I’ve already put in a full day at my regular practice and an evening taking care of Flick. And now here I am, on my feet for what will likely be another six hours, pretending my body isn’t screaming for rest.
Between patients, I lean against the counter in the med room and close my eyes for just a moment. When did it become so hard to simply exist in my own skin?
My phone vibrates in my pocket. Once. Twice. Three times in rapid succession.
My stomach drops. Flick. What if she needs me? What if her flare has worsened? What if?—
But when I pull out my phone, it’s not Flick’s name on the screen. It’s Lil.
Three missed calls and a text:
Need to discuss the land payment. Call me.
The words swim in front of my tired eyes. A piercing pain shoots through my temple, and I grip the counter’s edge. This is it. The moment where everything I’ve been juggling finally comes crashing down.
“How many more in the waiting room?” I ask Rach, who’s appeared in the doorway with another chart.
She studies me for a moment, and I see the concern flash across her face before she answers. “Actually? None. We just cleared the last one.”
I lift my head, blinking in confusion at the empty waiting room beyond her shoulder. How did I miss that? I’ve been so focused on just getting through each case that I didn’t notice the gradual emptying of the space.
“Sebastian...” Rach’s voice is gentler now. “When’s the last time you ate something? Or sat down for more than five minutes?”
I open my mouth to answer, then close it. I honestly can’t remember.
“That’s what I thought.” She crosses her arms, but there’s no judgment in her expression. Only worry. “Go home. Get some sleep.”
The responsible thing would be to stay. To be here in case more emergencies come in. To honor my commitment to keeping the clinic open until 2 AM like I promised the island.
Instead, I find myself walking to the front window. My hand hovers over the OPEN sign for a moment before I flip it to CLOSED. The click of the lock engaging sounds unnaturally loud in the quiet clinic.
“What are you doing?” Rach asks, though her tone suggests she already knows.
“I’m sorry.” The words come out rough, tired. “I told everyone we’d be available until two. They can go to the mainland clinic if?—”
“Sebastian.” She interrupts me with slow, deliberate applause. “It’s about damn time.”
I slump into one of the waiting room chairs, the plastic creaking under my weight. “I’m failing everyone.”
“You’re burning yourself out.” She sits beside me, her voice uncharacteristically serious. “You can’t keep this up, you know. You’ve been running on fumes for too long. You won’t be any good to your patients or yourself.”
Each word lands like a small blow because they’re all true. I know they’re true. But knowing and accepting are two very different things.
“This was only supposed to be temporary,” I say, rubbing my temples. “Just until we got more staff. Just until things settled down at the regular clinic. Just until...”
“Until when?” Rach challenges. “Until you collapse? Until you make a mistake because you’re too tired to think straight? Until you lose Flick because you’re never really present even when you’re with her?”
I scrub my hand down my face. Damn it. She’s right.
That last one hits hard. Because even when I’m with Flick, part of my mind is always elsewhere.
Running through case notes. Worrying about the sanctuary funding.
Planning the next day’s schedule. She deserves better than that.
She deserves someone who can be fully present, not just physically but emotionally.
“Go home,” Rach says again, standing. “Get some sleep.”
“I need to?—”
“You don’t need to do shit.” She places her hands on her hips, signaling that her word is final.
“Everything will still be there tomorrow. And if it’s not?
” She shrugs. “Then maybe it wasn’t meant to be.
Not everything has to happen right now, Sebastian.
Some dreams can wait until you’re in a place to actually enjoy achieving them. ”
“Fine,” I mutter. Though, as I collect my things and close up the emergency clinic, I can’t shake the feeling that all my work and effort have led to the most unexpected outcome.
I’m a failure.
At home, I stand in my shower until the hot water runs out, letting the steam and heat work on muscles I didn’t realize were so tense.
The bathroom mirror is completely fogged when I step out, and I’m grateful to avoid my reflection.
I know what I’d see: hollow eyes, stress lines, the face of a man trying to be everything to everyone and succeeding at none of it.
I pull on old gym shorts and a soft T-shirt, the familiar clothes a small comfort. The house feels too quiet, too empty. I almost feel like a stranger here.
In the kitchen, I open the refrigerator out of habit more than hunger. The same groceries stare back at me—frozen foods and quick snacks. I can’t remember the last time I cooked a meal.
I don’t even go grocery shopping anymore. I have a saved list of groceries that gets delivered automatically each week.
That’s what my whole life is like now. Predictable. Automatic.
I close the fridge and start a load of laundry instead, needing something productive to do with my hands. My head is pounding from fatigue, but I’m too wound up to sleep. The washing machine hums to life, and I find myself standing in my living room, unsure what to do with myself.
This is the problem with slowing down. Without the constant motion, without the endless tasks and emergencies and obligations, I’m left with just myself. And I’m not sure I like what I find.
I grab my laptop opening Netflix, I scroll through movie after movie.
Nothing grabs me. Changing gears, I decide to work on the sanctuary funding proposal.
But when I open the document, I find myself staring at the screen, unable to focus on the words.
Rach’s voice echoes in my head: “Some dreams can wait until you’re in a place to actually enjoy achieving them. ”
What if she’s right? What if I’m so focused on building something for the future that I’m missing what’s right in front of me?
My phone sits on the coffee table. It’s after midnight, so checking on Flick is out of the question.
But Ben... He’s had insomnia his whole life, so I know that he’s up.
He’s always been the one I turn to when things get complicated.
He’s also the one who’ll tell me the truth, even when I don’t want to hear it.
Especially when I don’t want to hear it.
Reaching for my phone, I let my thumb hover above my brother’s name. Should I do this now? As much as I want to talk to him, I feel guilty for being so absent lately. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Guilt and anxiety churn through my body as I weigh the pros and cons.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I hit call.
“Look who’s back from the dead,” he answers on the second ring, and despite everything, I smile.
“Hey.” I lean back into the couch cushions, suddenly exhausted. “You awake?”
“Always am. You know that.” There’s rustling on his end, probably him getting comfortable for what he knows will be a long conversation. “What’s going on? You sound like hell.”
“Thanks. Really needed to hear that.”
“Would you prefer I lie?”
“No.” I close my eyes. “I closed the emergency clinic early tonight.”
There’s a pause. “Okay. And?”
“And what?”
“And are you calling to tell me you finally grew a brain, or are you calling because you feel guilty about closing early?”
“Both?” I rub my face. “Things aren’t going well with the sanctuary.” I fiddle with a coaster from the coffee table. “The owner of the land wants the money sooner, and one of the donors has pulled out. I can barely keep up with the regular clinic, and?—”
“Bro, I’m sorry. That sucks.”
“Yeah,” I sigh. “It does.” Turning to lie down on the couch, I stare at the ceiling. “I’m sorry. About the other day. I was a real ass to you.”
“Yeah, you were, but I’ve kind of come to expect it lately.”
“Damn, Ben. Don’t hold back” I press my fingers to my temple. “Have I turned into a jerk?”
“Stress has turned you into an occasional jerk.”
There’s a long pause, and I know my brother well enough to know he’s trying to decide whether to be brutally honest.
“Just say it,” I say. “I can take it.”
“Here’s the thing with you, and I mean this in the best way possible?—”
“Uh huh. Right.”
“You called me for honesty, not comfort.” But his tone gentles.
“Look, we both know this started after Jessica. You went from taking care of her to taking care of everyone else’s animals.
From managing her depression to managing a dozen different responsibilities.
You never stopped to actually process the divorce or figure out who you are without a crisis to manage. ”
The truth of it sits heavy in my chest. “I don’t know how to stop.”
“Sure you do. You just did it tonight by closing early.” He pauses. “Sebastian, you can’t save every animal. You can’t fix every problem. And you sure as hell can’t build a meaningful relationship if you’re never actually present for it.”
My brother pauses again, waiting for my reply. Silence is all I can give him right now. What he just said are some of the things that have been running on repeat in my own mind lately, and I haven’t sorted through them all yet, so I can’t respond until I do.
Realizing I’m not going to answer, he sighs and clears his throat before continuing.
“Look, I’m not trying to be the bad guy here, really. But it’s been months since we’ve seen each other. And I know you’ve been turning down visits from Mom and Dad. We’re only an hour away. You always used to make time for your family.”
When he’s done delivering that blow, there’s a heavy pause across the line.
He draws a long breath. “That was a lot. I’m sorry if?—”
“No.” My voice cracks. “It’s okay. I get it.”
“We worry about you. Mom is always talking about it. Hoping the next time she asks to visit, you’ll make time for them.”
“I’m sorry,” I rasp through the lump in my throat. “I keep meaning to visit you at some point, but…”
But “some point” never comes.
“You don’t have to apologize, Sebastian. We’re all just concerned that one day it will be too much. You deserve a break.”
“Yeah. I know.”
Another silence follows while I stew in everything Ben has said.
“Hey. You’re still seeing Flick, right?” He clears his throat. “Why don’t the two of you come over here? To the petting zoo. We can show her around the place.”
I can tell by the hesitance in his tone that he’s expecting me to say no, that I’m too busy. Which is precisely why I don’t respond with that answer.
“Flick isn’t feeling well, but after she’s better, we can. If she wants.”
“I’d like to meet her. So would Mom and Dad. Steph, too.”
“Uh…”
“You worried about Mom and Dad scaring her away?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” I scoff.
“Think of it as a test.” There’s a lightness to his voice. “If our parents don’t run her off, you know she’s a keeper.”
“Oh, I already know that.” My chest warms as I think of Flick. She’s about the only thing that makes me smile these days.
“Look, I need to go,” Ben says, “but I’m glad you called.”
“Yeah, me too. Thanks for answering and listening.”
“Don’t be such a stranger, brother.”
“Okay.” My chest tightens. “Talk to you later.”
After we hang up, I stare out the window into the darkness processing everything Ben said.
I’ve spent so long running from the emptiness that followed my divorce that I’ve filled every available moment with obligation. But in doing so, I’ve created a different kind of emptiness—one where I’m too busy to actually live my life.
I need to break this cycle, but how?
My mind drifts back to Flick, as it so often does. She opened up to me this week in a way I never thought she would. Confided something extremely personal and scary for her and trusted me enough to help see her through it. To be there for her. She’ll never know how much that meant to me.
It also confirmed something I had already suspected was happening. I am in love with her. And I know it’s fast, but it’s true.
I am 100% deeply, authentically, in love with her.
As if she knew I was thinking of her, my phone buzzes with a text from Flick.
Can’t sleep. Want to tell me a terrible joke?
Despite everything, I smile. Because here’s something else I’m finally starting to understand: Flick doesn’t need me to be perfect. She doesn’t need me to save every animal or build a sanctuary or work myself to death proving my worth.
She just needs me to be present. To show up. To choose her not just in the big moments but in the small ones too.
What do you call a bear with no teeth?
***
A gummy bear.
That’s horrible. Tell me another.
And so I do. For the next hour, we trade terrible jokes and random observations, and for the first time in longer than I can remember, I’m not thinking about tomorrow’s schedule or the clinic’s needs or the sanctuary funding.
I’m just here, in this moment, connected to someone who makes me want to be better not by doing more, but by finally learning to do less.
It’s a start.