Once I get to my truck, I sit there for a while, drumming my fingers against the steering wheel. The air inside is still and heavy, somehow settling in my chest and making it hard to breathe. I’ve been thinking about what Orion said since he left, what I feel every morning when I wake to my damn cat sleeping on my chest, like I am something worth curling up next to.
The idea still feels foreign. Being worth anything.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I grab my phone and hit the call button. My therapist answers on the second ring.
“Lucian?”
“Yeah. Sorry to call out of the blue.” I shift in my seat. “I just—uh—I needed to check on something.”
He hums, that patient tone that saystake your time, I’ve got all day.
I sigh, leaning back in the seat. “I’m gonna be traveling soon. My buddy roped me into a trip to Nashville, and I… don’t know if I can pull it off.”
He makes a noise in the back of his throat to encourage me to continue my thought.
“And,” I add quickly, because if I stop, there is a good chance I’ll lose my nerve, “I got a cat.”
Another pause. “You have a cat?”
“Yeah.” The word feels heavy in my mouth. “He has three legs, and he’s a very vocal cat. He’s sweet as hell, but he’s kind of attached, and I can’t just leave him with a sitter. I was wondering if you could help me make him—what’s it called—an emotional support animal or whatever.”
“That’s actually a great idea,” he says, not missing a beat. “Do you have his name and your travel dates?”
I hesitate. “His name is… Sir Sassafras the Sassy Ass Cat,” I add flatly, because it’s better to rip off the Band-Aid now.
To his credit, the man doesn’t laugh. Not out loud, anyway. “I see. A very regal name.”
“He came with it,” I mutter. “I tried to change it, but he didn’t like any of the nicknames I used.”
That admission hangs there for a second. I can practically hear my therapist smiling on the other end of the line.
“I can take care of the paperwork tonight,” he says gently. “Send me your travel details, and I’ll have everything ready before your flight. You’ll be set.”
I swallow, throat tight. “Thanks,” I say, as I stare out the windshield at nothing. “Don’t get sentimental, though. I still hate people.”
He chuckles. “Hating people is not the same as isolating yourself from recovery. This—traveling, seeing people, taking responsibility for an animal who clearly brings you comfort—is a big step. You’ve made more progress in the last month than I’ve seen since the accident. And whether you admit it or not, this isn’t just about music. You’re reconnecting with things that bring you joy, and that’s what matters.”
“Thanks,” I murmur. “Appreciate it.”
“Lucian?”
“Yeah?”
“When you put yourself out there, you need to remember, you don’t have to be fine. You just have to keep going.”
The line clicks dead, and the cab goes quiet again.
I sit there, staring at the empty seat beside me, my reflection faint in the windshield. For a second, I imagine Sir Sass sitting there, watching me with those big eyes that always seem to see straight through the armor.
“Guess he’s official now,” I murmur.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I can almost hear his tiny chirp of a meow—warm, smug, and forgiving.
And for the first time in a long time, the silence doesn’t feel empty. It just feels… still.
6
Lucian
