Page 37 of Gin and Bear It

“To Jeremiah’s. He has a gym set up in his garage.” I grab some mugs for each of us. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. Working at Stryker Liquors. Wes says JD’s a decent boss.”

Ash scoffs but doesn’t say much more. He runs a hand over his face, clearly holding in a yawn. My post-workout buzz fades a little.

“Well, sorry for trying to be optimistic,” I say, opening my fridge. “It’s only day two of this marriage and I wanted to attempt something friendly.”

“I’m not trying to be a dick,” he says. “I’m just saying I don’t fully believe Wes.”

“Why?” JD, like Ash, was always in the background of my life growing up. He’s prickly, for sure, but Wes has said a lot of positive things about him in the past year or two. He’s mellowed.

“It’s a little too early for me to get into my bullshit.” He eyes the coffee pot as it slowly fills. “But the long story short of it is that I don’t believe he’s had some magical personality transplant, even if it looks like it on the surface. He’s still JD.”

His irritation is palpable. Yeah, that shit behind his words does feel too deep. But also, it’s not my fault he’s doing this. It feels like his irritation is aimed at me.

I start to tell him this, but something in the structure of my apartment groans. I’m used to that. It’s an old building. But I’m not used to that groan traveling across the apartment like an earthquake, followed by a crash that shakes the floor.

Ash and I lock eyes and he darts out of the kitchen first, his arm out as if to shield me. The crack came from the corner of the living room where Pip likes to sit and stare at the walls and ceiling. Or what used to be the ceiling, which has now collapsed onto the folded-out couch.

“Pip? Oh my god, Pip?” I push past Ash to the small pile of rubble and spot a little white blotch of fur. “Pip!”

He lets out a meow—more of a pained, scratchy meow than I’ve ever heard him make.

He usually bolts under the bed when I need to take him to the vet, so I have to act fast. I grab a throw blanket off the nearest chair and dive straight into the small pile of rubble, throwing the fabric over him. He meows and squirms under the fabric.

“Oh my god, oh my god,” I say, wrangling him and holding him as snugly to my chest as I can without hurting him. Is this even the right thing to do? “We need to take him to Waylon. He sounds so off. But the hole in the ceiling and what if the whole ceiling collapses and⁠—”

“Where’s his carrier?” Ash asks, putting a hand on my shoulder. Its weight steadies me.

I tell him and he quickly goes to grab it. He must be familiar with the type of carrier because he turns it on its end so I can tuck Pip in without him trying to back out on me. He closes the door and gently sets it down, Pip letting out that strange meow in protest.

“Sit with him,” Ash says.

His tone is serious and authoritative, so I do as he asks. I get on the floor and look inside the crate. Should we have stuffed him in there with the throw blanket? He would have run if we didn’t, though. But what if he has a broken bone? Shit.

His eye looks a bit red, maybe from the dust. And he looks so dirty.

I get a grip when he meows at me again and text Waylon. Thankfully he can get us in early.

“The ceiling looks like it’ll be fine—it was a weak spot from some water damage, as far as I can tell. The couch is fucked, though. Who’s your landlord?” Ash asks. He squats down next to me, his hand on my leg. Having him on my level is just as steadying as his hand is.

“My dad, technically. Long story.” I swallow, running my sweaty hands down my leggings. “Waylon says he can see Pip before the clinic opens if I take him now.”

“Yeah, you’re not driving,” he says. “I’m taking you. Text your dad on our drive over.”

“Wait! Your stuff!” I gesture to his bags, which are pushed into the corner. His stuff, like a glass of water, book, and phone charger on the side table, is a dead giveaway that we aren’t sleeping in the same bed. “Shove it in the bedroom. My dad will be here.”

He immediately understands and flies into action. In a matter of moments, he’s put his stuff into my bedroom. We leave the pull out couch opened, though. We’ll have to think of an excuse for that later.

Ash extends his hand to me, helping me up. I don’t even protest. I’m not the most focused driver on the best of days, so hearing Pip’s awful-sounding meow while worrying my whole apartment is going to collapse will probably run me off the road.

He guides me to his Jeep, opening the door for me and keeping me from falling on my ass as I climb inside. I put Pip between my feet.

“He’s squirming around, so maybe he’s not that hurt,” I say.

“Waylon will get him sorted,” he says, his tone even and calm.

“But why does he sound so weird? He barely meows. Now he sounds like he’s been chain-smoking. Can cats⁠—”

“Jada,” he says when we stop at a sign. “Take a breath.”