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He winked, but then straightened. “If, um… If you feel like…” His eyes flicked to his hand. “If you’re not game, we can always do a raincheck.”
I so wanted to tell him that I was always game to bang him until he forgot whatever was stressing him out. But… my hand was burning and throbbing, and that wasn’t much of an aphrodisiac.
Before I could speak, he nodded decisively. “Raincheck.” Then he stepped away, brandishing his phone. “Which also means we can eat whatever we want without worrying about feeling like overfed slugs later.”
I laughed. He made a valid point.
While he let Shiloh know we were bailing, I went into the bedroom to change clothes. I’d already done that once, putting on a decent shirt and pants so we could go out to a nightclub with his sister and some friends. Admittedly, as much as I didn’t like letting Owen down, I was relieved to be putting on a pair of sweats and an old sweatshirt—the one my colleagues had bought me that saidI Fucking Hate Basilisks.
In the bathroom, I unbandaged my hand just to take a quick peek at the mess underneath. It wasn’tthatbad, all things considered. I’d been doing an exam on a kitten someone had rescued, and she’d decided she didn’t like that idea. Even after all these years as a vet, even after all my training and internships, I still sometimes forgot that kitten claws were the sharpest things known to man (it’s a fact—look it up). I also forgot just how strong and vicious kittens could get when they were angry, scared, or both.
In the blink of an eye, that little ball of innocent fluff had turned into a screaming, spinning wheel of razor blades and tiny needle teeth.
Twenty-five stitches later, I was just glad she hadn’t mauled my dominant hand. Dominant hand or not, though, hands and fingers were sensitive as hell, and now that the local anesthetic had worn off…ow. It ached. It stung. It throbbed. Even the analgesic gel I’d brought home from work—the stuff that we used on hellhounds and griffins—didn’t do much to take the edge off.
Fucking kitten.
Okay, I really couldn’t even be mad. In fact, I’d felt bad that I’d scared her, especially when I yelled and tried to pry her off. She was already terrified when she came in, and she’d just been defending herself. Poor thing.
She was still at the clinic, too; we were keeping her on some antibiotics for a minor infection, and then she’d be going to a foster family until she was ready to be adopted. I’d try to make friends with her tomorrow. And I’d probably be crushed when she left the clinic.
Though Owen and I had been making noise about finally getting a pet. Would he be game for a kitten who needed a little TLC? Well, there was time; she wouldn’t be ready for adoption for a few weeks yet. I could broach the subject after my stitches were out.
For tonight, I’d focus on salvaging my evening with Owen.
I rebandaged my hand as the analgesic took effect, not that it did much. Then I went back into the kitchen.
“Shiloh’s gonna make us both pay for this.” He didn’t look up from typing something on his phone, and he was smiling. “She said we’re paying for the babysitter next time.”
I laughed, sliding my uninjured hand over the small of his back. “I’m sure we can handle that.”
He sent a message, then pushed the phone away and turned around to face me. Running his hands up my chest, he said, “I still need to grab a shower. You want to order food?”
“Sure. What are you in the mood for?”
After some back and forth, we settled on pizza. If we were going to have a lazy night in, we might as well go all the way.
With dinner on its way, I eased myself down on the couch, carefully cradling my arm. I’d really hoped we could go out and have a good time tonight. Things had been busy and stressful at the credit union where Owen worked, and he deserved a night to relax.
And I guess, the more I thought about it, maybe a lazy night in was what he needed. His therapist had found that he didn’t have depression after all. Some situational depression, of course—I’d put him through the wringer—but at the root of all his struggling, not to mention the desperation play of having his memory erased… was anxiety.
Anxiety about being able to trust people. About investing emotionally in a relationship—new or old—only to have it blow up in his face again. About his own ability to gauge whether someone was trustworthy or to see their red flags.
Yeah, my therapist and I had had a few conversations about my guilty conscience after that one. Holy shit.
Fortunately, Owen’s therapist was able to help him find some coping methods that worked for him. For a short period, she had him try some anti-anxiety meds, but he found the coping methods were helping enough that he really didn’t need them. He did keep them around, though, just in case he had an exceptionally bad day.
Like, say, the night I was on call and got called back into the clinic less than ten minutes after I’d left. It had been a serious emergency—the details of which didn’t need to be spelled out—and there hadn’t been time to let Owen know I’d be late.
One lengthy surgery later, I finally had a chance to reach out to him. I was actually surprised to see he hadn’t blown up my phone with texts or calls, which had happened after a similar incident shortly after we’d reconciled. This time, he’d sent a single text asking if I was running late. That was it. I’d actually panicked that he hadn’t freaked out, and I’d had visions of him packing my stuff and piling it in the hall outside the condo.
But to my great surprise and relief, a calm and collected Owen answered my call.
“Hey, how did the surgery go? Is he okay?”
“The surgery—wait, how did you know?”
“When you didn’t come home, I called the clinic’s front desk. They told me you had an emergency.”
