Leaving Auckland means leaving Jared. And that’s not an idea I want to contemplate.
Jared and I spend every spare moment we have together.
Maybe it’s because of the unusual circumstances of how we met, but we seem to have a rapport I’ve never had with anyone.
It turns out we both have an addiction to not onlyGetting the Goons, but also reality TV shows likeDog RehomingandSurf Lifesaving, which triggered a discussion where we discovered that our ideal futures are scarily similar: a lifestyle block, preferably near the ocean, with lots of animals.
Over the past month, I’ve continued to make it my mission to inject some fun into Jared’s ridiculously responsible life. Last week, I convinced him that what he really needed at eleven p.m. on a Tuesday was to learn how to make cocktails. We got through three YouTube tutorials and half a bottle of vodka before creating something that tasted like the offspring from a misguided relationship between cough syrup and a lemon.
The week before that, I taught him how to play Mario Kart, which revealed that underneath his calm paramedic exterior, Jared has the competitive spirit of a honey badger. Unfortunately for Jared, I’ve been playing since I was twelve, and I proceeded to knock him off the track six races in a row while cackling like a cartoon villain.
“You’re a monster,” he’d said.
“You’re just mad because Yoshi is superior to Donkey Kong in every way.”
“Take that back.”
“Never.”
We’d ended up wrestling for the controller, which had led to us collapsing on the couch, breathing hard and grinning at each other like idiots. For a moment, I’d thought he might kiss me. His eyes had dropped to my lips, and I’d leaned in just slightly.
Then Emmy’s image on his phone screen had lit up with a text from Sophie, and the moment had shattered.
But the best part is how he’s started including me in his Emmy adventures like I’m a permanent fixture. Last weekend, we took her to Rainbow’s End, where she spent twenty minutes explaining to the carousel operator that the horses needed actual food, not just music. Then she made us go on the log flume three times because she was convinced the fake crocodile at the bottom was lonely and needed company.
“She gets her empathy from her uncle,” I’d told the ride operator, and Jared had turned this adorable shade of pink.
“Okay, Princess Whiskers, you’re all ready.” I step back.
“You’ve got the touch,” Aroha says, which, from her, is basically the equivalent of a parade in my honor.
I head to the breakroom so I can have lunch while Princess Whiskers is in surgery.
The breakroom smells like someone microwaved fish again. Which, in my opinion, should be illegal in a vet clinic. We have to cope with enough questionable smells without voluntarily adding to them. I pull out the sandwich I made this morning while Patches tried to steal the ham directly from my hands.
Melissa, one of the vet techs, plops down next to me with her salad that always makes me feel bad about my carb-heavy choices.
“Felix,” she says, leaning toward me. “You’re single, right?”
I nearly choke on my sandwich. “That’s a very smooth conversation starter.”
“My brother just moved back from Sydney. He’s a graphic designer, really cute, loves dogs even though he’s allergic, which I think shows character.”
“It definitely shows something.”
“I’m just saying, I could set you guys up. He’s funny and really nice.” She pulls out her phone, already scrolling through photos. “Look, this is him last Christmas.”
The guy in the photo she flashes at me is objectively attractive. Sandy-brown hair, nice smile, the kind of build that suggests he actually uses his gym membership instead of just feeling guilty about it monthly when the direct debit comes out, like I currently do.
“He seems nice,” I say carefully.
“So can I give him your number?”
I should say yes. This is what normal people do. They agree to meet someone’s nice brother and go on dates to restaurants where you can’t pronounce half the menu items.
But all I can think about is Jared’s laugh when I convinced him to do karaoke in his living room last night. How he absolutely murdered “Bohemian Rhapsody” but committed to it so hard that I forgot to sing my parts because I was too busy watching him.
How, when we collapsed on the couch afterward, he said, “I haven’t done anything that stupid in years,” and I’d felt like it was the best compliment anyone had ever given me.
