2. Adrian

I open the exam room door slowly, careful to block the opening of the door so the border collie I just finished giving an ultrasound can't escape. Usually I wouldn't worry too much about an almost-to-term dog carrying at least five puppies having the agility to get past me. However, despite her condition, Kiwi is energetic and quite the escape artist, having gotten past a vet tech and into the back area at least twice that I've been witness to.

Thankfully, Kiwi's owner comes to the rescue, swiftly grabbing her collar and attaching a lead to it. "Sorry," she exclaims, and I give the woman an understanding smile.

"No worries. Don't hesitate to give us a call if you have any questions, and we will see you when the puppies arrive," I say.

"Thank you, Dr. Wilks."

I bend to give the dog a quick pat on the head, then back out of the room and quickly close the door.

"So is Kiwi really pregnant again?" a voice asks from behind me, making me jump and nearly drop the chart in my hand.

I immediately recognize it to be Sophie's, one of the vet technicians and one of the handful of people I consider a friend. Okay, one of two people, the other being my best friend of nearly eighteen years, Casey. But people make me anxious. There's a reason I went into veterinary medicine rather than human medicine. Animals are predictable for the most part. I can't say the same about most people. Case in point, Sophie's unfortunate habit of sneaking up on me and scaring me half to death.

After taking a quick deep breath to calm my fight or flight response, I slide the chart in the pocket on the door for a tech to pick it up.

"Yup, about six weeks along, give or take. So only a couple more weeks to go," I say as I make a beeline to the break room because I'm well overdue for my lunch break. I usually take my lunch a lot earlier in the day, but one of the other veterinarians called out because their kid is home sick with the flu, so I've had to split their appointments with the other doctor on shift today.

"How many puppies this time?" Sophie asks, a hint of forced innocence in her voice.

"I'm not telling you what I saw on the ultrasound. I learned my lesson after last time," I say. "Besides, you know ultrasounds aren't guaranteed to be accurate."

"I know that, but you are still always right. It's like you have a sixth sense. Also, I split the winnings with you last time, so I don't know why you're complaining," she points out.

Apparently, every time a cat or dog comes in pregnant, the vet techs bet on the litter size. Since the doctors aren't included in the pool, and Sophie is the only person at the clinic I talk to in a more than superficial way, I didn't know about it. So the last time she'd asked about a pregnant dog's litter size—a different dog, not Kiwi—I didn't hesitate to tell her. "Yes, which is exactly why the other assistants were mad at me," I counter.

"They were not mad at you," she scoffs.

"They were." I go to my cubby and grab my coat to put it on, but before I can put my arm through the sleeve, Sophie stops me.

"Oh, wait! Sorry, I forgot why I came to find you because I was distracted by puppies. I need you to see another patient—a walk in," she says.

I can't help groaning. "Oh, come on, Soph, really? I was supposed to be on my lunch break an hour ago."

Sophie frowns apologetically. "I know, but Dr. Rivers has appointments until three. It's just a general exam. Oh, and a feline HIV test and a rabies booster."

I sigh and put my coat back on the hook. "Stray?"

The way she immediately perks up lets me know she's about to give me way more information about a patient's backstory than I probably need. Normally, I don't mind because it's one of the endearing things about her. She's bubbly, a little quirky, and one of the kindest and most compassionate people I've ever met. It's what makes her one of the best vet techs I've ever worked with. People and animals just open up to her.

Plus, I genuinely love my job, so I enjoy getting to know my patients well. However, it's a little less endearing when I've been seeing patients nonstop since this morning and skipped breakfast. I let her go on, anyway.

"Okay, so a woman came in—Ashley, you've seen her cat Stanley before. Orange tabby with the little white socks, very friendly."

I give her an amused look because "very friendly" is a descriptor that could be given to about every orange tabby I've ever encountered—including my own.

"Anyway," Sophie continues, "she comes in with this tuxedo in a carrier—so not her cat. Apparently, she found him in her back garden, and when she went out to say hi, he was way too friendly to be an alley cat—like tried to get into her house and walked right into the carrier when she got it out. So clearly this is someone's cat, but none of her neighbors recognized him. So she brought him in to see if he has a chip."

"I'm guessing he doesn't, and she's bringing him home if he needs an exam," I say.

"No, he does, and I tried calling the owner, but he didn't answer, and the registered address is all the way in Fairfax. So I'm thinking the guy just moved or something. But get this." She grins as she pauses, presumably for dramatic effect. "The cat she found is also named Stanley. What are the odds, right? It's like fate or something."

"Okay, yeah, I'll admit that's a little weird." Not that I believe in fate. I've always been a little too analytical for that.

"Anyway, Ashley said she doesn't mind if we call the guy again and leave her information, and in the meantime, she'll take Stanley home with her. She just wants to make sure buff Stanley is healthy before taking him home to meet her Stanley."

"Buff Stanley?" I ask with a laugh.

"This cat is the most jacked cat I've ever seen. If he wasn't the sweetest thing ever, I'd be sure he's running some sort of underground gym for cats or something," she says seriously.

"Okay, fine. I'll go see this other Stanley. Just a regular stray work-up?"

"Yeah, Stanley didn't look injured or anything. His little socks were a bit dir—"

"Red!" one of the other assistant's calls from the hallway, and Sophie wrinkles her nose and whips her head toward the noise, her strawberry blonde ponytail swinging with the motion.

The unoriginal nickname started when there were two Sophies working at the clinic. By the way she frowns every time she hears it, I can guess she hates the nickname as much as I do—not that she said anything. She would never.

She groans. "Ugh, that can't be good. Okay, Stanley and Ashley are in room two. Do you want me to run out and grab you some lunch while you're in there?"

I shake my head. "Don't worry about it."

"Red!"

"Okay, I'm coming! For god's sake, Carol."

I laugh as she mutters the last part under her breath, then I take a second to center myself before heading back out of the break room to grab a blank chart.

Forty minutes and a healthy cat later, I drag my feet to the break room for the second time to try to take my break. The moment I step through the door into the dated, but clean break room, though, Sophie calls over to me from the smallest table in the corner.

"Sophie, I don't care what it is. I'm going to lunch," I say without giving her a second glance as I head to my cubby.

"No need," she calls, holding up a brown paper bag and giving it a shake.

I frown slightly and turn. "I told you not to worry about it."

"And I ignored you," she says with a grin. "I got your usual plus a hot chocolate because it's cold as hell today."

Normally, I don't like people going out of their way for me, but I've learned over three years of knowing her that this is just who she is. I met Sophie on my first day at the clinic, back when she was a receptionist working on her associate's in veterinary technology. Despite her only having started here a few days before me and being almost eight years younger than me, she took it on herself to make sure I "felt welcomed while I settled into my new role."

At first, I brushed her off. I'm an Air Force brat, after all, so after spending the formative years of my life moving every two to three years, I got good at adapting to a new place without anyone's help. I honestly prefer to adapt to a new place on my own. I spent twelve years having people decide that, because I was the new kid, I obviously wasn't capable of getting to class or making friends on my own, and it was their job to help me. And now that I'm well into adulthood, I realize that most of those people were well meaning. However, at the time, all it did was make me feel more isolated because as the new kid, I was more of a novelty than a peer.

I assumed Sophie was the same, wrongfully lumped her in with those people from high school who tried to become my new best friend only to immediately forget about me when I moved away. But she was persistent—always making time to chat with me during breaks between patients and sitting with me whenever I ate lunch in the break room by myself. Eventually she somehow made her way past my defenses and became someone I'm glad to consider a close friend. Plus, it's hard not to like someone who crocheted me two stuffed cats to look exactly like my own. Those cats are now part of a small collection that sit on my desk because, as I've since learned, she stress crochets, so she's never without yarn and a crochet hook.

I make my way to the table. "Thanks," I say, and she slides the bag containing my apple walnut salad and mac and cheese combo toward me.

"So, how was Stanley?"

"You're right. That is the most muscular cat I've ever seen," I say, earning a laugh. "He is also perfectly healthy."

"Oh, good," she says in relief.

After that, we eat in silence for a while, which I'm grateful for. I need the time to decompress and slow my brain down after the nonstop day I've had. I eat with one hand and read a book on my phone—a queer romance Sophie recommended to me months ago that I'm finally getting to since it had a really long hold wait at the library. But then Sophie's phone buzzes several times in succession on the table, and I glance up. Her face falls as she reads the incoming texts.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

Sophie looks up, confused for a moment like she didn't know her face betrayed her, then smiles and shakes her head. "Oh, it's nothing."

I give her a pointed look and set my phone face down to give her my full attention.

After a long moment, her shoulders slump, and she frowns. "Fine, that was Jeremy. It's not really a big deal, but we were supposed to go out tomorrow night. We were going to go out to dinner, and—" she shakes her head. "Anyway, he can't make it now. Something about a last-minute work trip."

It takes an effort to keep my face neutral. I've never had a high opinion of Sophie's boyfriend. It seems to me that he cares more about his job than Sophie, and the one time I met him, he gave off distinct preppy straight frat guy vibes. But they've been together since high school, and I've only known Sophie for a small fraction of that time, so I could be wrong about him. Plus, it's not like I have a leg to stand on when it comes to relationships. I'm thirty-three years old and I've never been in a relationship, not a real one, anyway. Passing flings—or situation-ships as Sophie once dubbed them—are much more my speed. They're easier. Safer.

Still, it doesn't take a relationship expert to know that even if someone says it's nothing, it usually very much isn't. I've also learned over our two-year friendship that Sophie never likes to be left alone with her thoughts when she's disappointed or upset. "Well," I start, trying to come up with something on the spot, "Casey and I are going to get together for dinner tomorrow. You should join us." We aren't, but something tells me that Casey won't object to spontaneous plans if Sophie is involved.

"Really?" she asks, starting to perk back up already. "Oh! Do you think we could also head to Lavender?"

It takes almost all of my effort not to immediately shoot the idea down. I like The Lavender Gimlet, but usually on a weeknight or on a Sunday afternoon for brunch. The idea of going there on a Saturday night with the crowd and loud music makes me anxious. Not that Sophie knows that. As far as she knows, I'm just a homebody—which is true, independent of the anxiety. Casey is the one person besides my parents that really knows anything about my anxiety disorder, and that's only because he was the person who convinced me to see a doctor about it after my first full-blown panic attack in college. It's not something I like to broadcast. But The Lavender Gimlet is one of Casey and Sophie's favorite places. It's not like we go to places like that often, and that's what gin is for. A martini or two usually dulls the social anxiety just enough. No more than that, though, otherwise it starts to have the opposite effect.

Sophie must sense my hesitation because she frowns slightly. "Oh, come on Adrian. It's been ages since I've been dancing because you know how much Jeremy hates dancing. And I also know you like their cocktails. Besides, when was the last time you went out?" She gives me a look as if to say "And by go out, I mean get laid," although she would never outright say that, even if we weren't at work.

To be fair, it has been longer than a while, and I prefer meeting guys in person because dating apps are terrifying. But I'm not sure if breaking my dry spell is worth pretending I wouldn't rather be at home on my couch with my two cats and a bottle of riesling. Plus, I work Sunday, so I wouldn't even have the day to hermit and recover.

When I don't answer, she pouts further. "Please?"

That earns a smirk. "You realize that only works on Casey, right?"

I regret it the moment it's out of my mouth because she grabs her phone. "I'll text him then."

If I weren't in my thirties and a doctor of veterinary medicine and, therefore, a mature adult, I would've considered snatching her phone from her to prevent her from using my own best friend against me. But I am, so I accept what is about to happen.

My phone buzzes, and I reluctantly unlock it to read the group text.

Casey Sophie

Jan 28, 1:53 PM

Sophie

Casey! Lavender tomorrow after dinner?

My phone buzzes with a private text from Casey.

Casey Summers

Jan 28, 1:53 PM

Did we have dinner plans I forgot about?

Jeremy canceled on her so I made up plans. Lavender is all her though

Is it even worth it for me to ask you to say no?

Not a chance

With a sigh, I navigate back to the group chat.

Casey

I'm in!

And so is Adrian

Fine