She falls asleep within minutes, safe and sated and mine. I stay awake longer, watching her sleep, marveling at how a woman I met because of fake dog emergencies became the center of my world.
My perfect disaster. My little girl. Mine.
six
Daisy
Sixmonthslater,I'mstanding in the clinic's new back office running my fingers over the brass nameplate on my desk: "Daisy Sullivan, Practice Manager." The metal is cool and smooth, and I still can't quite believe it's real.
Sullivan. I'm still getting used to that. To seeing it on my driver's license, my credit cards, the wedding photos hanging in our living room.
The office smells like fresh paint and new furniture. Rex picked everything out—the ergonomic chair because "you're going to spend hours here, baby, might as well be comfortable," the filing cabinets with labels already printed in his blocky handwriting, even the small coffee maker because "you're not skipping meals or running on empty anymore."
Sunlight streams through the window he had enlarged, illuminating dust motes in the air. Outside, I can see the newly renovated kennel area, the grooming station, the waiting room with its fresh coat of cheerful yellow paint. Six months ago, thisplace was barely holding together. Now it looks professional. Successful.
Because of Rex. Because of us.
Dr. Mitchell appears in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his reading glasses pushed up on his graying hair. He's wearing his usual outfit—scrubs covered in cartoon cats—but there's something different in his expression. Thoughtful. Content.
"Got a minute?" he asks.
"Always." I gesture to the chair across from my desk and he settles in with a comfortable sigh.
"You know, watching you these past six months has been something else," he says, leaning back. "The way you've transformed this place. The new systems, the staff management, how you handle difficult clients. You're a natural at this."
"Thank you." I'm not sure where this is going.
"Makes me think about the future. My future." He smiles. "I'm fifty-three. Linda wants to travel. I've been doing this for almost thirty years, and honestly? I'm getting tired."
My stomach flips. "Are you... leaving?"
"Not tomorrow. Not even this year. But eventually? Yeah." He looks around my office. "And when I do, I want this place in good hands. Hands that understand what we've built here. What it means to the community."
"Dr. Mitchell?"
"I'm not asking you to decide anything today. Hell, I'm probably two, maybe three years out from actually retiring." He leans forward. "But I wanted you to know—you and Rex should start thinking about it. About what you'd want if you owned this place. Because when the time comes, I'd want you two to have first shot at buying it."
I can't breathe. Can't process. "You'd sell it to us?"
"If you want it. If you can swing the finances. If it makes sense for your life." He stands. "Just something to think about. Plant the seed now, let it grow. Talk to Rex. See what you both want."
After he leaves, I sit there for a long time, staring at the nameplate on my desk. Owning the clinic. Actually owning it.
My phone buzzes.
Rex: How's your day, baby?
I stare at the message, trying to figure out how to condense this conversation into a text.
Me: Dr. Mitchell just told me to start thinking about buying the clinic. Not now, but eventually. In a few years.
My phone rings.
"Tell me everything," Rex says without preamble, his voice that mix of commanding and concerned that still makes my stomach flip.
I do. Every word Dr. Mitchell said, the way he looked at me, the seed he planted about the future. When I finish, Rex is quiet for a moment. I can hear him thinking.
"What do you want?" he finally asks.
