Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 141425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
He flexes a big arm. “Ox, baby, ox.”
It’s like he knew I needed a little teasing to break up the serious moment, but my mind latches onto that word again—baby. The way he says it so easily, the way he’s saying it…again. I hang on to the sweetness of his tone too.
I still don’t know what’s happening between us. But maybe that’s okay. “Well, Mister Ox. Where’s the little Drama queen?”
“Shockingly, she’s sound asleep. In your apartment,” he says, then he adds, “I hope you didn’t mind me going downstairs to your place and getting some things.”
That raises a good point. “How did you get in there? I don’t mind but I’m curious.”
“You gave me the code. In the middle of the night. I asked if I could get some things for you.”
I laugh. “I don’t remember that at all.”
“You were pretty sleepy. You’re cute when you’re sleepy. And you’re cute when you’re sick.”
I growl, wiggling a finger his way. “Now that’s taking it too far, you ox.”
He holds up his hands in surrender, then gestures toward the counter where he’s taken out a cutting board, and left some bagels and avocado. “Can I make you a bagel?”
I set a hand on my belly, and it’s rumbling. “You know, I think I am hungry. But let’s pretend you never said avocado.”
“I never said avocado.”
He slices the bagel and toasts it. And I take this care-taking for what it is.
Care.
Care given freely. Without expectation of performance. Without the requirement of excellence. It’s just care, and maybe I don’t have to figure out what this thing between us is all the time. Maybe I can simply accept it as something new and lovely in my life.
And I like new and lovely a lot.
When I’m halfway done with the bagel, he clears his throat. “Sabrina,” he says, and he sounds serious.
I tense. A Pavlovian reaction. Something tough is coming.
But then his lips curve up like he has a secret. “I called Trevyn the other day. I hope it wasn’t too presumptuous, but I really needed his help with something.”
He hands me another note card.
Sabrina,
I should have done this a while ago. I should have asked if you had plans for the holiday. I didn’t and I’m sorry. And I should have said something, too, the last morning we spent together. I’m sorry for not figuring it out sooner.
A lot of this—well, all of this—is new to me. So I’m not sure I’m so good at figuring any of this out. And I don’t even know if you’ve already made Christmas plans with your friends. If you have, I understand. But Trevyn said he thought you were still free. And I just can’t imagine taking the kids to see Ice Spectacle in New York without you since I know you wanted to go too.
I’m not asking you to babysit. I’m not asking you to work. I’m just asking you to go…with us.
—T
Luna makes an announcement after school a few days later. “Since we’re not going to be here for Christmas, we should gather all the toys we don’t use and clothes, too, and donate them, instead of getting a tree.”
“We talked about how to help others in my classes too,” Parker puts in. “Maybe we can get gift cards for unhoused families and donate them too. A lot of shelters have holiday giving programs.”
And I fall even harder for these kids. “Just check with your dad,” I say, fighting off a lump in my throat.
Tyler doesn’t need to be asked twice. He says yes and helps the kids gather items that afternoon. After we drop off some donations at a local shelter, we pop into its secondhand shop and pick up some gently used garlands and a wreath too, and decorate the house that way, as Parker discusses the science of Santa with his father, and Drama plays with a few stray ribbons.
It feels like a new tradition, but I don’t want to get too attached to it. It’s like fostering. You give the animals so much love for a short time, knowing you’re only a stop along the way.
And that’s okay.
We return Drama to Little Friends the next day. That was always the plan—to take care of her until she was big enough to be spayed and fully vaccinated.
Still, Luna pouts, and Parker’s lower lip quivers as we walk into the animal rescue in the heart of the city. A little pink crate swings in Luna’s hand. Inside, a tuxedo kitten is curled up peacefully on a blanket.
I spot Nia quickly. With a shirt that reads I Work For My Cat and flower tattoos winding down her bronze skin, she’s hard to miss. She’s microchipping a little silver tabby at an exam table in the cat wing, but she looks up and sees us, finishes popping the chip in, hands the animal to a volunteer, and turns in our direction.