Page 5

five

. . .

Tony

I don’t want her here. She’s dangerous.

Vivienne Gallagher winds up in my animal shelter? This isn’t a coincidence. I sense tomfoolery afoot, and I know exactly who to blame.

Glaring at my sister, she smiles innocently at me as I head toward the back room. I’ve gotten most of the kitten cages taken care of, so only the adult cats need theirs done.

Setting Shadow back in her cage, she gives a pathetic mewl. She has serious separation anxiety. I can’t relate, so I stroke the top of her head.

“I’ll be back soon,” I tell her, and she bats at my hand with her little paws, clinging to me until I gently untangle myself. My icy heart thaws a teeny tiny bit.

And then I glance at Vivienne, wearing a scowl on her face that tells me in no uncertain terms she still hates me, and my insides turn to ice again.

I can’t force her to not hate me. But that doesn’t mean the cats can’t get some much-needed help.

The shelter is chronically under-funded. I’m lucky to get a salary at all. I get paid just above minimum wage for fifteen hours of work a week and usually volunteer another five to ten, depending on my training schedule and my shifts at the restaurant.

The animals need the help. It’s not their fault. They deserve better.

Vivienne follows me into the cat room, her face impassive. She crosses her arms over her chest.

“What do you need me to do?” she demands, an edge to her tone and a set to her jaw telling me in no uncertain terms she’d rather be anywhere else.

“We have to clean out the cages, refresh the water bowls, change the litter, and swap out the blankets.”

We have an adoption event tomorrow, so the place needs to be clean and tidy, ready for well-meaning visitors who rile up the cats and end up leaving empty-handed. I scowl, thinking about it. The cats don’t get their hopes up, but I do. I want them to go to a good home. But the shelter is better than a bad home, so maybe they’re better off staying here after all.

If I could, I’d adopt every single cat and dog in this shelter. Not only is that not healthy or feasible, it doesn’t make sense when they could go to a better home. I’m barely home. I don’t have the time to give a dog the attention and exercise it deserves. Besides, I think my siblings may complain if I turn our house into a halfway home for abandoned animals.

No, I’ll do better to stick to my current plan: volunteer at the shelter, work my ass off, and hopefully go to vet school soon.

Now I just have to figure out a way to pay for it. Vet school costs at a minimum $200,000 for all four years, and that’s only if I get into the only in-state program. Most likely, I’d have to go out of state, which increases the cost of tuition, plus the cost of living expenses. I can’t rely on an academic scholarship. The only way I got through undergrad on minimal loans was my athletic scholarship, and not only have I used all of my eligibility, there aren’t athletic scholarships for most graduate programs.

I’ve already taken the GRE and the MCAT. My scores are theoretically good enough to get into Tufts here in Boston, but it’s an incredibly competitive program. I’d probably have better luck at a different school. Except then I wouldn’t be able to live with my siblings and split bills…

Shaking my head, I focus on cleaning out the cages. Vivienne works silently on the opposite side of the room. I’m able to complete three cages to every one she does… but she’s doing it. She may be slow about it, a bit skittish when it comes to the chore, but she’s not shying away from the hard work.

“I didn’t know you would be here,” I venture into the silence, punctuated by her movements in the other cages.

She doesn’t respond.

“Do you do a lot of these types of things?”

Still nothing. I don’t know what I’m looking for. Any sort of reaction. The only thing I don’t want is apathy. I don’t think I’d be able to handle that.

“Al mentioned you guys were texting,” I say casually.

She whirls around. “Are you here to work or to gossip?”

Victorious, I run my tongue over my teeth. “You tell me.”

Vivienne scowls. “Fuck off.”

“You know, you keep saying that phrase. I don’t think you know what it means.”

Her face goes red. “You—don’t quote The Princess Bride at me.”

“As you wish.” I tip my non-existent hat.

She blusters, her face nearly turning purple. Her eyes bulge and her lips flatten into a firm line. She looks absolutely fucking gorgeous—and absolutely fucking pissed .

“Fuck. Off.”

Miming zipping my lips shut, I turn around and focus again on my tasks. I feel the heavy weight of her stare on my back for several long moments before she shuffles back to her cages.

We work in silence for a good hour. I shouldn’t antagonize her; that will definitely not help my case. Not that I know what I want from her. For her to not hate me, maybe. That would be a good start.

Is it so wrong that I want her to like me? If nothing else, I’d at least like us to be able to speak civilly toward one another. For Cari’s sake, if not for mine.

Jennifer, who has the afternoon shift, enters the adult cat room.

“How’s it going?” She grabs a clipboard and starts checking I’ve documented everything.

“Pretty well,” I tell her, finishing up the last cage. “They’re fairly well-behaved today.”

“Good. Just in time for tomorrow.” She smirks at me.

We both love and hate adoption fairs. It’s good for the animals that find new homes. It’s depressing for the ones that don’t.

After a few minutes’ discussion about what I’ve done and what still needs doing, Jennifer shoos me away.

Clocking out, I grab my leather jacket and shrug it on before making my way back to Shadow. She’s curled into a ball in her cage, but as I approach, she perks up, meowing and dancing in front of the cage door.

Opening it, I scoop her out and tuck her into the front of my jacket, carefully zipping her in. I think I hear what sounds like a sigh and an “aww” from one of the rugby players behind me, but I carefully ignore it. I’m not doing this for her, whoever she is.

I’m doing this for myself .

My motorcycle is parked out back. I pull on my helmet and Shadow pokes her head up in the collar of my jacket. When she gets bigger, I can put her in a sidecar, but for now, this is safest for her.

The bike rumbles to a start and she meows excitedly, kneading my chest. I pat her clumsily over the jacket.

With one last look over my shoulder, I see the rugby players staring. My sister is amused, Susan is shaking her head, and if I’m not mistaken, the team’s photographer just took a picture of me.

My eyes flick to Vivienne. She’s scowling again, her arms crossed over her chest.

Inside my helmet where nobody can see, I smile. She looks so fucking pissed. I love it.