Silent Auction of Hearts
Sunlight streams through the blinds, illuminating dust motes floating in the air like tiny suspended stars. I claim the last empty chair as Dr. Martinez shuffles papers at the head of the conference table. The way her eyebrows pinch together and her mouth presses into a thin line tells me this isn’t some normal meeting. My stomach does its familiar pre-announcement flip. But I already know what’s coming. Zayn told me yesterday outside the clinic, so now I have to convincingly act surprised when she tells everyone else.
Sara settles beside me, her scrubs covered in cat hair and what looks suspiciously like earwax cleaner. The rest of the staff fills the remaining seats. The fluorescent lights emit their usual irritating hum. Someone’s abandoned half a blueberry muffin on a crumpled paper towel.
“Thank you all for coming,” Dr. Martinez begins. She looks exhausted, but there’s something different today—her eyes hold a brightness that’s been absent since our emergency meeting weeks ago. “I have some potentially very good news regarding our situation.”
I grip my pen tighter, forcing my expression into what I hope looks like curious anticipation. My pulse races inappropriatelyfast for a Tuesday morning. I take a sip of water just to occupy my trembling hands.
“As you’re all aware, we’re facing closure in under two months unless we resolve our landlord issue.” Dr. Martinez makes eye contact with each person around the table. When her gaze lands on me, her smile widens slightly. “Well, we may have found a solution.”
Everyone leans forward expectantly. I try to arrange my face into surprise, but heat creeps up my neck. Jen from reception actually gasps when Dr. Martinez announces we’re organizing a “major fundraising event” to “save the clinic.” Sara catches my eye from across the table and raises one knowing eyebrow. She knows. Of course she knows. Sara never misses anything.
“We’re planning a community celebration in Town Square,” Dr. Martinez continues, consulting her notes. “Live music, dancing, food vendors, and a silent auction. If we can raise sufficient funds for a down payment, we might be able to purchase this building instead of facing that astronomical rent increase.”
I nod along, studying the table’s surface. There’s a coffee ring directly in front of me, a perfect brown circle like a target. I trace my finger around its circumference while Dr. Martinez explains how Zayn—she calls him “Mr. Blackwell,” which sounds bizarrely formal—has been helping in developing this strategy.
“The fundraiser is scheduled for next Friday evening,” she says. “Which means we have exactly one week to pull this together. I’ll need everyone’s help.”
She begins giving out responsibilities. Jen will handle social media promotion. Sara and the weekend techs will manage physical setup in Town Square. The kennel staff will coordinate high school volunteers. And then?—
“Sophie,” Dr. Martinez says my name and I snap to attention. “I’d like you to partner with Mr. Blackwell on securing items for the silent auction.”
My grip on my pen tightens until I’m surprised it doesn’t snap. “Me?” My voice comes out pitched too high.
“Yes,” she confirms, nodding decisively. “You have extensive connections throughout Bellrose, as does he. I believe you two could secure truly exceptional donations. Plus, you’re extraordinarily organized—you’ll keep everything in order.”
My mouth goes desert-dry. I attempt to swallow as everyone’s attention fixes on me. “Sure,” I manage. “I can handle that.”
Dr. Martinez beams like I volunteered to swim the English Channel, not like I simply agreed to spend an entire week working closely with my ex-boyfriend—the same ex I’ve been trying so hard to avoid. “Wonderful! Mr. Blackwell actually specifically suggested you’d be ideal for this role.”
Of course he did. My face burns. I can feel Sara’s knowing gaze from across the table.
“He’s already has a list of potential donors,” Dr. Martinez continues, oblivious to my internal panic. “You two can begin today. He’ll meet you here after your shift ends.”
I make a noncommittal humming sound that everyone interprets as agreement. Dr. Martinez launches into timeline specifics—one week for donation collection, two days for setup and organization, then the main event. My pen dutifully records everything even though my brain feels like it’s short-circuiting.
Dr. Martinez’s voice softens, becoming almost reverent. “If we succeed in this, we might actually save our clinic.”
The room erupts. Sara starts rattling off boutique owners she knows personally. Someone suggests approaching the marina about donated boat tours. Jen’s fingers fly across her phone screen, probably drafting social media posts. The atmospheretransforms—suddenly charged with hope we haven’t felt since learning about the rent increase.
The meeting ends, but everyone lingers. They bunch up in small groups, brainstorming possibilities. Sara passes my chair and squeezes my shoulder. “You’ve got this,” she whispers. “Just try not to murder him before you secure the donations.”
I attempt a laugh that comes out strangled. People gradually disperse until I’m alone with my color-coded notes and someone’s abandoned muffin. My heart continues its frantic rhythm. My palms are slick with nervous sweat.
One entire week. Working directly with Zayn. Canvassing businesses all over town. Just the two of us.
I grab three highlighters from my bag and start marking my notes. Yellow for potential major donors. Green for deadlines. Pink for auction items. My hand moves without thinking, putting everything in a system that makes sense to me but probably looks crazy to anyone else.
When I’m anxious, I make lists. I’ve always done this. My fingers reach for highlighters and colored pens, and I start categorizing, prioritizing, color-coding. If I can just get my notes looking perfect, maybe I won’t completely lose it when he arrives.
I underline “Town Square venue” twice in blue ink. Circle “silent auction coordination” in purple. Draw stars beside “Friday evening 6pm.” My handwriting becomes neater with each word, like if I form perfect letters they’ll somehow shield me from the effect he has on me.
When I finish, my page resembles a kindergartener’s art project, but my breathing has steadied. I have a plan now. I can do this. It’s only seven days. It’s just a job. It’s just saving the animals and our clinic. That’s what matters—not how I forget to breathe when he walks into a room, not the coffee that appearson my desk every morning, not how he still remembers exactly how I take it after all these years.
Just the clinic. That’s all this is about.
That’s what I keep telling myself as I slide my rainbow-highlighted notes into a fresh manila folder labeled “FUNDRAISER” in my best handwriting.
