111. Rosalyn

ONE HUNDRED ELEVEN

ROSALYN

Charles bumps his head against the corner of my laptop.

"I don't know either," I huff.

The cat looks at me. I look at the cat. Then I focus my attention back on the computer screen.

Yesterday, while we were eating my deviled egg salad sandwiches in Nathan's office, he asked me if I'd ever thought of writing a cookbook.

He said it between giant mouthfuls, just casually throwing it out there, as though the suggestion itself wasn't the most encouraging thing anyone had ever said to me.

And while I sat, stunned, he kept going. Suggesting that I could design it with handwriting in the margins, like the old cookbooks I liked to buy. Telling me it would feel more personal and that I could put a foreword, or an afterword, explaining about that first cookbook I found and how it started it all.

He might have picked up on my emotional reaction, but he just kept going. Talking about how I could have a whole section about marshmallows. And a section on the best way to make food for large parties.

It's not like I've never thought about it. Like I never dreamed about seeing my name on a cookbook cover. But that's all it's ever been.

A dream.

I look at the screen in front of me.

Realistically, I know it's still a dream. And the chances of me ever actually getting one published are as slim as slim can be.

But hearing Nathan talk about it with such excitement made me want to try.

Charles meows once, then jumps off the table.

I turn to watch him, wondering if there would be a way to incorporate a cat into the photos that would eventually need to be taken for the cookbook when he stops.

"What's wrong?"

Charles arches his back and lowers his head, and with a sound I can feel in my bones, he throws up.

"Oh my god!" My stomach rolls, even as worry grips my throat.

Charles makes a terrifying hacking sound, then pukes a second time.

"No, no, no, no. You can't be sick!" I plead with the cat that's already proven to be sick.

I push out of the dining chair. Crutches forgotten.

Standing, I dart my eyes around the condo.

I don't know what I'm looking for, but then something catches my eye, and I freeze.

Raw chicken.

I left a package of raw ground chicken on the counter to thaw because I was planning to use it for dinner tonight. But I'm so used to living all fucking alone that I didn't even think about Charles trying to eat it.

I shuffle toward the island and can see that the corner of the package is chewed, but I can't tell if Charles actually ate any.

Raw chicken is bad, right?

I'm pretty sure it's bad.

I mean, he's a cat, but?—

Charles walks a few feet and throws up a third time.

It's already making him sick !

Panic swallows me.

"It's okay. It's okay," I chant. "I got you. It's okay."

It's so not okay. I have no idea what to do.

I grab my phone off the table.

It's four p.m.

And that's what, two in California?

I don't know when Nathan's speech is.

I can't call him during that. What if his phone vibrating in his pocket distracts him?

My heart is galloping, and I try to focus.

Think!

I need help.

Need to get help.

I look at my phone.

I need to go to someone who can help.

I open the map app on my phone and search for emergency vets near me.

There's one four minutes away.

I hit start on the directions, then shove my phone into my pocket.

"Come here, Charles." I take a step toward him, putting my full weight on my sprained ankle without thinking.

It twinges.

It's sore.

But it's not horrible.

I take another step.

I can't carry Charles and use crutches.

And I'd choose Charles every day.

I take another step around the little pile of vomit, then I bend and scoop him up off the ground.

"You're a good boy," I tell him as I hug him close. "You're such a good boy, and you're going to be okay."

I pick up my pace, crossing to the front door.

My van keys are in a bowl on a side table next to the shoes.

I shift Charles into one arm, then snag the keys while shoving my feet into my sandals. My ankle brace easily fits in the loose footwear.

Then I pause for a second before also grabbing the bowl .

I'm pretty sure it's crystal, but if Charles has to puke again, I want to give him a place to do it.

I juggle everything into my arms, then remember my purse.

"Fuck."

I've never been to an emergency vet before, but I'm sure it's not free.

My purse is back on the table.

I spin around too fast, and that's the movement that tweaks my stupid ankle.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck." I shuffle across the room as quickly as I can and one-handedly shove the little bowl and keys into my purse, then sling it over my shoulder. "Promise we're going now," I tell Charles. But then I look back at the gross spots on the floor.

Do I need to bring in a sample?

Forty-five seconds later, I have a sandwich bag on my hand, inside out.

I hold my breath, then bend over, twisting to keep my purse on my shoulder, and I pick up the slimy clump.

I gag.

This is so disgusting, but I have no time to spare.

Heaving out a breath, I hug Charles to my chest and awkwardly get the bag off my hand and sealed.

I gag again.

And I gag one last time when I shove the vom bag into my purse.

Charles blinks up at me like I'm crazy. But all I can think about is that he needs to be okay.

Charles has to be okay.

I wouldn't be able to handle it if he wasn't okay.

And if I was the reason something happened to him…

Hugging Charles tighter, I rush back across the condo and out the door.

His heart is beating against mine, and like this, right now, he feels fragile.

Tears burn as they fill my eyes.

This sweet, beautiful creature is sick because of me.

The tears fall as I enter the empty elevator .

This can't be my legacy.

I don't want to be a killer.

I can't be responsible for hurting an innocent.

I never wanted to cause anyone pain.

My tears turn to sobs.

I never wanted to hurt anyone.

Charles purrs, and the vibrations rattle against my ribs.

"It's okay," I whisper.

The doors open into the parking garage, and I rush out of the elevator, almost crashing into a man waiting to get on.

"S-sorry." My voice cracks.

He says something. Maybe yelling at me. Maybe asking if I'm okay.

But I can't make his words out over my pounding heart.

Four minutes.

All I need to get through is four more minutes.

Four more minutes, and we'll be somewhere that can help Charles.

I try to jog, but the jolt of pain that shoots up my leg almost makes me scream.

I choke on a breath.

If I injure my ankle further, then I won't be able to get Charles to the vet.

And waiting for an Uber would take too long.

I keep my steps as steady as possible and finally make it to the van.

Charles stays relaxed in my arms, and when I guide him onto the front seat, he goes willingly.

It takes some effort to get myself in, but when I get in and slam the door, I'm grateful that my right foot—my driving foot—isn't the one throbbing with pain.

"Hang on, buddy," I tell Charles as I shift into reverse and start backing out of the parking spot. "We'll be there soon."