Page 99 of Hold the Pickle
My chest tightens at the thought of him. We seemed so perfect. But maybe that’s not enough. Circumstances have to work out, too.
Emily looks up from her desk as I enter the main room. Her bright red oversized cat’s eye glasses are topped by a shock of wild gray hair sticking up in all directions. She’s eccentric and funny and exactly the person you’d expect to be running a rescue.
Hers is based in an old rambling house outside Boulder. The cat room is a sunroom, added after the fact. The kennels are in the old garage, which has been expanded to triple its size.
The main office is the original living room, with the wall knocked out to incorporate the dining room into the space. The kitchen is intact, as it always was, with a table for the crew to eat lunch.
One bedroom is an intake room where we isolate new arrivals until they are assessed. The second bedroom houses all the accounting and paperwork storage. It has a desk, and I’m often in there making calls to donors and veterinarians and prospective foster homes.
She stands up to hold out a stack of folders. “Nadia, I’m so glad you’re here. We’re doing reports to keep our 501(c)(3) status active. You should learn about this. Warning—it’s boring as hell.”
I laugh. “I was warned about boring as hell in grad school.”
Emily nods. “Good. I’m fairly sure we fall under the cutoff for filing the long form, but I need you to run the numbers sinceMrs. Crabshaw, God rest her lovely soul, left us that money in her will.”
I flip through the folders. “What’s our fiscal year?”
“September to August.”
“Got it.”
The phone rings, and Emily plunks back down to grab it. “Boulder Fur Babies Rescue, this is Emily.”
I tuck the folders under my arm to head to the sanctuary of the back room. Emily’s voice can carry a country mile, and I have some focusing to do.
Even so, when I open the folder, the first thing I see is a receipt from a donor named Dalton Scout, an octogenarian who runs the ice cream shop downtown.
My finger runs across the name.
Dalton.
I’ve been gone almost a month. Our texts have gotten fewer. In fact, a week ago, they slowed to almost nothing. It’s like the faucet shut off.
I should be getting over this.
But I’m not.
And I don’t know what to do about it.
34
DALTON
The only way to get through this is to work.
I take on every case I can. Fitz and Harrington are more scarce anyway, having figured out their strengths and securing mentors.
I’m still flailing in the ER, which is fine. I can stick with emergency medicine if I want. It’s what I put down in med school when I had to choose a direction, sort of de facto choice for the undecided. From here, I could be a general practitioner or go with internal medicine or any number of places.
But I feel lost.
It’s been four days since I spoke or texted with Nadia, the longest we’ve gone.
I would never ghost her, and I don’t want to let her go. But I am letting her take the lead. If she slows down, I slow down. I haven’t forgotten what Max said. If she comes back to me, fine, but not to push her.
I hate long distance. Hate that she had to go. Hate that she can’t find her way back.
But I don’t hate that she loves her rescue work. Her MBA is helping them. They’re straightening out their books, cuttingcosts, adding services, and streamlining. She’s organizing a fundraiser to get more donors.
