Cryptid isn’t the same tiny scrap of fur anymore. He’s filled out—maybe a little too much—but the signs of aging have crept in quietly. The faint cloudiness in his eyes. The slower way he jumps onto furniture. The extra second he takes before settling down, his joints stiff with each movement.
I finish the last of the wings, drop the bones into the take-out box, and toss it in the trash before rinsing my hands under the sink. Cryptid paws at my legs the entire time, tail swishing with impatience.
“Yeah, yeah,” I say, drying my hands. “I didn’t forget you.”
He meows dramatically while I scoop a portion of kibble into his bowl, then dives in with enthusiasm, crunching loudly.
Once he’s settled, I wander into the living room and collapse onto the couch with a long, exhausted sigh. I turn on the television and mindlessly scroll through streaming services, feet propped on the coffee table.
A moment later, a satiated Cryptid hops up and curls in my lap, a warm, purring weight against my thighs. I rest a hand on his back, letting the steady rumble of his purr ease the tightness in my chest that’s been there since that dreadful day last spring.
When Mel and I first started dating in our early twenties, people warned her about me, spouting biphobic bullshit about how I’d never be satisfied with a woman, how I’d inevitably cheat on her.
Oh, the irony.
Because the truth is, I’m fiercely loyal—probably to a fault. I was so committed to our marriage I didn’t see what was happening right in front of me. Needless to say, walking in on her in our bed with hercoworker shattered my world. Every illusion, every sense of safety, was ripped apart in an instant.
At the time, Melanie and I were actively trying to have a baby—fertility supplements, awkward sex positions designed to “make it stick,” late-night conversations about potential names. It was frustrating as hell, but in hindsight, Melanie not getting pregnant was a blessing in disguise. I wouldn’t have wanted to bring a child into that mess. No kid deserves that.
I later learned she’d been secretly on birth control the entire time. Somehow, that betrayal cut deeper than the affair itself. I might’ve been able to forgive the sex, eventually. But letting me believe we were building a family together, letting me hope, only to take it all away? That loss destroyed me.
I thought our marriage was solid. I thought we were happy, standing on the edge of the next chapter. I had no idea she was planning her exit, siphoning money into a private account, quietly preparing for a future that didn’t include me.
She told me I’d pushed her away over the years—that I’d simply beentoo much.
After the initial screaming and crying and mountain of paperwork that followed, I came to a bleak realization: there wasn’t much left for me in Chicago.
The friend group that had once been “ours” suddenly became hers by default. Invitations stopped. Group chats went quiet. I found myself orbiting a life that no longer had room for me. It became painfully clear how intertwined my world had been with Mel’s—how much of my identity I’d stitched into hers.
All I had left was the one thing that kept me sane through the long, echoing nights in that empty house—brewing craft beer in the basement. I’d spent years daydreaming about opening a brewery of my own, but life kept getting in the way. Mel was the cautious one, wary of financial risks, unwilling to take out loans for what she called my far-fetched fantasy.
So when everything finally collapsed, I did the unthinkable. I bet on myself. I uprooted my life and started over in a new state, a newtown where nobody knew my name. I loved Chicago, but it was impossible to heal in the same place where my still-beating heart had been torn from my chest.
In my lap, Cryptid twitches in his sleep, probably dreaming about chasing a mouse through some shadowy alley. I let my hand drift through his fur, smoothing the cowlicks along his back.
“We got this, buddy,” I whisper. “Just you and me.”
Chapter Three
Ashton
Thistimeofyearis supposed to feel hopeful—the orchard stirring awake, tiny buds cracking open with the promise of fruit. When I was a kid, I’d count down the days until the first bloom. I’d wake up early, heart racing like it was Christmas morning, and run to my window to find the trees blanketed with blossoms.
Somewhere over the last few seasons, that magic has slipped away.
When I saw the early blossoms today, all I could think about was how easily they could wither. The fungal spots on the leaves caused panic to crawl up my throat. My entire future rests in the fate of these trees.
Now, the tractor grumbles loud, piercing through my noise-canceling headphones. My grip tightens on the steering wheel as I pass through rows of cherry trees. Behind me, the sprayer hisses rhythmically, releasing a fine mist that hangs in the air before settling on budding branches.
The chemical tang of the fungicide seeps through the breeze, sharp enough to sting my throat through the mask. My white coveralls stick to my back with sweat, and my face shield keeps fogging no matter how many times I wipe it. The world looks hazy through the plastic—rows of brown, green, and white blurring together in the morning light.
By the time I finish the last row, my shoulders ache from bracing against the tractor’s vibration. The blinding sun hovers high in the sky, peeking through the thinning overcast.
I steer the tractor back toward the barn. The engine sputters as I park it inside. I shut everything down, unclip the sprayer hose, and neatly coil it around the hook in the wall.
From the corner of my eye, I notice a tall figure looming in the doorway. My gaze flicks to see my father leaning against the wall, hands tucked in the pockets of his worn jeans.
He clears his throat, nodding toward the trees. “You’re overlapping your passes too much. Can’t afford to be sloppy this early in the season.”
