23. Sebastian
Sebastian
“All right... Who do we have next?” I wash my hands after examining a Lab’s broken tooth, the tremor in my fingers more pronounced than usual. Too much caffeine, not enough food. The usual.
“A stray cat. The person who found her thinks she might be pregnant.”
“Let me guess. Pixie?”
The retired librarian is always bringing in strays. She’s Pine Island’s unofficial patron saint of stray cats.
“You know it.”
I grab a paper towel, grateful for a straightforward case after a morning filled with mysterious symptoms and referrals to specialists.
The pregnant cat makes me think of Flick’s kitten, which makes me think of Flick. Which makes my chest tighten with something between hope and dread.
I haven’t seen her since her doctor’s appointment yesterday, but she texted that she’s feeling better.
I have a surprise reservation at a waterfront restaurant this weekend.
I wish I could take the whole weekend off, but the animal sanctuary is moving forward.
Another investor came through with funding, and I’m meeting with the property owner tomorrow to discuss renovations.
It’s finally happening.
Everything is falling into place professionally, but Ben’s words about using work as a distraction keep echoing in my head.
The sanctuary is important, but am I using it as another excuse to avoid dealing with what’s broken in my life?
Once it’s up and running, I tell myself I’ll take a break.
Maybe even get away with Flick for a weekend.
Once I get it up and running. Always later. Always after the next project.
“She’s in room three,” Rach says. “And she’s feisty.”
“The cat or Pixie?”
Rach snorts, but I know she remembers when Pixie insisted on giving a cat a vaccination herself because I was “too intimidating for the cat.”
My phone buzzes. A text from Flick makes my heart race—she’s outside, wants to know if I have a minute. The smile that spreads across my face feels foreign after the morning I’ve had.
“Give me five minutes,” I tell Rach, already heading for the door.
Each step quickens my pulse. A surprise visit from Flick could mean anything, but I’m choosing to be optimistic. Maybe she missed me as much as I’ve missed her. The emergency clinic shift tonight means I won’t see her for a few days, so even a quick hello would be?—
She stands on the pavement, hands buried in her windbreaker pockets, shoulders hunched against more than just the breeze. The shadows under her eyes are darker than yesterday, and there’s a brittleness to her posture that makes my stomach drop.
“Hey.” I touch her arms gently, feeling the tension radiating through the fabric. “You okay? How did you sleep?”
“Not well.” She rubs her face, avoiding my gaze.
“Are you heading into another flare?”
“No.” The word comes out sharp, defensive.
Relief washes through me. “That’s good. You know, an ergonomic pillow could really help. The ones on your bed have too much give. And a white noise machine might?—”
“Sebastian.” Her voice cuts through my rambling like a scalpel.
I close my mouth, recognizing the spiral I’m in. Offering solutions because I don’t know how to just sit with someone else’s pain. Because fixing things is all I know how to do anymore.
Fuck, I’m doing it again.
Ben was right. I fill every silence with suggestions, every problem with a ten-step solution, because standing still means feeling everything I’ve been running from since the divorce.
“Sorry.” The word tastes like failure. “I just... I want to help.”
“I know you do.” Her voice softens slightly, but her eyes remain guarded. “That’s the problem.”
My chest constricts. “What do you mean?”
She takes a breath that seems to hurt. “We need to talk.”
The words hit like ice water. Jessica said the exact same thing the night she asked for a divorce. The memory floods back—her tired face across our kitchen table, the resignation in her voice.
I force myself to focus on Flick, even as my hands start to shake. “Okay. Talk to me.”
“I need some space.”
The words hang between us like a diagnosis I don’t want to hear.
“Oh.” It’s all I can manage past the tightness in my throat.
She sighs, and I see how much this is costing her. “I like you, Sebastian. And you’ve been incredible since I told you about the arthritis and the stalker. You’re always checking in, making sure I have what I need, that I’m safe.”
Like. The word stings when what I feel is so much more. But I haven’t told her I love her. Haven’t found the right moment, or maybe I’ve been too scared to make myself that vulnerable.
“But yesterday at the doctor’s office, I realized something.” Her voice wavers. “You’re trying to manage my life, and I can’t... I can’t do that again.”
“I don’t understand.” But even as I say it, I know that’s not true. “I’m trying to support you.”
“No.” She meets my eyes finally, and the pain there takes my breath away.
“You’re trying to fix me. When I said I didn’t want to take NSAIDs, you didn’t hear me.
You just started listing ways to make taking them easier.
Like my decision didn’t matter, just the outcome you’d already decided was best.”
Each word lands like a blow. “That’s not... I didn’t mean...”
“I know you didn’t.” Her arms wrap around herself, a barrier I helped build. “But intent doesn’t change impact. When you do that, I don’t feel heard. I feel like a project. A problem you’re trying to solve.”
The truth of it guts me. All my efforts to help, to make her life easier—I’ve been doing exactly what drove Jessica away. Different circumstances, same pattern. Using action to avoid connection. Fixing instead of feeling.
“Flick, I’m sorry. I had no idea. Can we?—”
“I need space to figure out what I want.” She cuts me off gently but firmly. “We’re both drowning in work anyway. Maybe it’s better to stop now before we get too emotionally involved.”
A bitter laugh escapes me. “I’m already emotionally involved. Completely. And I thought you were too.”
I’m in love with you. The words burn in my throat, but saying them now would be manipulation, not confession.
“I’ll check in if and when I’m ready to talk again.” The words sound rehearsed, like she’s been practicing them in the mirror. It’s the same flat tone she used when telling me about her diagnosis—emotional armor against vulnerability.
Which means this is killing her too. She’s choosing to walk away even though it hurts, because staying hurts more.
“Flick, please. Can we talk about this? Work through it together?”
“That’s just it, Sebastian. Not everything needs to be worked through or fixed. Sometimes people just need space to breathe.” She takes a step back, and I see her hands trembling in her pockets. “I’m sorry. I just... I can’t do this right now.”
“Wait.” The desperation in my voice makes her pause. “The ‘if’ in what you just said. Are you saying we might never...”
“I don’t know.” Her voice cracks slightly. “I honestly don’t know. Bye, Sebastian.”
She turns and walks away quickly, each step measured and careful like she’s holding herself together through sheer will. I stand frozen on the sidewalk, watching her disappear around the corner, taking every future I’d imagined with her.
In one conversation, she’s exposed every flaw in how I approach relationships. How I use helping as a shield against real intimacy. How I’d rather research treatments than sit with someone’s pain. How I’ve turned love into a series of problems to solve instead of a person to truly see.
The clinic door opens behind me. “Sebastian? You okay?” Rach’s voice sounds distant.
“Yeah.” The lie comes automatically. “Just need a minute.”
But I don’t take a minute. I go back inside, back to work, back to the one thing I’m good at. Fixing animals is straightforward. Their problems have solutions. Their pain has endpoints.
Unlike the ache in my chest that feels like it might never heal.
The afternoon crawls by. Pixie’s cat is indeed pregnant—no surprise there. Two routine vaccinations. A rabbit with an abscess. Cases that usually center me now feel like I’m moving through thick fog.
“You look terrible,” Rach observes when I emerge from the last appointment.
“Thanks.”
“Frank just called. He’s got the flu.”
My stomach drops. Frank’s scheduled for tonight’s emergency clinic shift. Without him, Amy will need backup.
“I’ll cover it.” The words come automatically.
“Sebastian, you’ve already worked?—”
“It’s fine.” It’s not fine. Nothing is fine. But at least at work, I know what I’m doing. At work, fixing things doesn’t drive people away.
The emergency clinic is exactly what I need—controlled chaos that leaves no room for thinking about Flick’s face as she walked away.
A dog hit by a car arrives within minutes, requiring immediate surgery.
Then a cat who ate an entire box of chocolates.
Then another cat who somehow swallowed a whole sock.
By the time I extract the sock—the third surgery of the night—exhaustion has become a living thing. I’m not sure how I’m still standing.
“That’s enough,” Rach says when I finally emerge. She stayed late without being asked, knowing I’d need help. “We’re closing early.”
“We’re open until two?—”
“And it’s one-fifteen on a Tuesday night. Pine Island’s pets will survive until tomorrow.” She’s already flipping the sign and locking the door. “Go home, Sebastian. Get some sleep.”
The drive home is a blur. My house sits dark and empty, no warm light in the windows, no signs of life. Just rooms that echo with each footstep. I reheat takeout that might be three days old, eating standing at the counter because sitting at the table alone feels too pathetic.
My phone buzzes. A text from Ben:
Haven’t heard from you. You okay?
Not really.
Want to talk?
Yeah.
My phone rings a couple minutes later and Ben dives right in.
“What happened?” No preamble, no small talk. That’s Ben.
“Flick ended things. Said I was trying to manage her life instead of supporting her.”
“Were you?”
Sighing, I close my eyes. “Yes.”
“Just like with Jessica?”
The parallel I’ve been avoiding slams home. Different woman, same mistakes. “Yes.”
“Sebastian.” His voice gentles. “You know I love you, right? But you’ve got to stop using work and helping as armor. It’s been five years since the divorce. At some point, you need to figure out who you are when you’re not fixing something.”
“I don’t know how to do that.”
“Then maybe it’s time to learn. Look, I know the sanctuary is important to you. But what’s the point of saving every animal on the island if you can’t save yourself?”
After we hang up, I sit in the darkness of my too-big house, finally facing the truth. I don’t know who I am outside of work. Don’t know how to love someone without trying to fix them. Don’t know how to be still with someone else’s pain without immediately reaching for solutions.
Flick saw through all of it. Saw how I use helpfulness as a shield, activity as armor. And instead of letting me fix my way out of it, she did the one thing I can’t work around: she asked for space.
My phone shows one unread text from her, sent hours ago:
I’m sorry. This is hard for me too.
I stare at those words until my eyes burn. She’s hurting too. Every instinct screams to text back, to call, to show up at her door with solutions and promises.
But for once, I don’t.
Instead, I do what she asked. I give her space.
And in that space, maybe I’ll finally figure out how to be the man she deserves—not the one who fixes everything, but the one who knows how to simply be present.
Even if it’s too late.