by Tawna Fenske
“Maybe a little.” Jonathan’s brow furrows. “She’s been meowing at me a lot, sort of a weird yowl thing.”
“Pacing around?” Jade asks. “Napping a lot?”
Jon scratches his head. “I think so.”
Jade sits back on her heels, stethoscope looped around her neck. “Well, guys. You’ve got a very pregnant cat on your hands.”
“Pregnant?” Jon blinks, then looks at me. “I’m going to be a—cat dad?”
I’d laugh if the look on his face weren’t equal parts horror and wonder. “Um, this is a surprise.”
It probably shouldn’t be. I should have known a feral cat wouldn’t be this chubby. “It’s the ear tip that threw me,” I admit, feeling dumb.
“Would have fooled me, too,” Amber says, probably just trying to be nice. “As fluffy as she is—”
“And hefty,” Jade adds, glancing at Jessica. “She looks like she’s been eating well.”
“She has.” Jon glances at me, then back at Jade. “So, uh—how far along is she?”
Jade strokes a palm over the cat’s middle. Jessica’s leaning into Amber’s hands and purring like her life depends on it. “She’s about sixty days. Maybe more.”
“Which means what, exactly?” he asks. “I’m not familiar with the gestational period of a cat.”
Jade sits back on her heels. “Average is sixty-five to sixty-nine days,” she says. “In other words, get ready for kittens.”
An hour later, Jonathan and I are bundled in blankets on his front porch with a bottle of rosé between us. He’s looking out at the clouds as he holds the glass, not sipping from it at all.
“I think she’ll be comfortable in there, don’t you?”
He sounds so unsure, and it’s all I can do not to crawl into his lap and promise everything’s going to be okay. “It’s the nicest cat maternity ward I’ve ever seen,” I tell him.
Lifting the glass to his lips, he raises one eyebrow as well. “You’ve seen a lot of cat maternity wards?”
“Just this one,” I admit. “But I doubt many cat owners haul in a full-sized refrigerator box lined with an ocean of towels and blankets.”
He smiles and runs a finger over the rim of his wineglass. “Don’t forget the full-sized down comforter.”
“Or the six-million pillows.”
He laughs and sips his wine. Most of the maternity ward comes courtesy of Mark and Chelsea’s remodel. Mark refused to allow Jon to lift any of it and even dropped off a spare litterbox from their rabbit, Long Long Peter. Before he left, Mark fixed me with a gruff, brown-eyed stare, rubbing one hand over his beard. “Take care of him.”
“The cat?” Confused, I glanced back at the room where Jon was focused on coaxing Jessica into the box with scraps of chicken. “But she’s—”
“Not the cat.” Mark jabbed one massive finger in his brother’s direction. “The dumbshit who makes it his job to look out for every living creature on the planet. You’re the only one he lets take care of him.”
He turned and lumbered out the door before I could reply. Before he could witness the shock on my face or the pathetic flash of wonder. Me? The only one?
I’m embarrassed by how good that made me feel. How amazing to think I might have something special to offer Jon Bracelyn.
“Jade seemed pretty sure Jessica was someone’s pet at some point,” Jonathan says now, pulling me back to our conversation on the porch. There’s a sharp edge to his voice, and I glance over to see him glaring at the mountains. “Who would abandon a helpless animal like that?”
“People can be jerks,” I acknowledge. “That was nice of Jade to offer to spay and neuter everyone when it’s time.”
“Yeah.” He takes another sip of wine, and sighs. “Is it dumb that I don’t want her to find them homes as barn cats?”
“Not dumb, no.” There is literally nothing dumb about this man. “I mean, people need barn cats. They’ve got an important job to do.”
“But the lifespan’s probably not too long,” he says, shaking his head. “I can’t believe the Humane Society is that overcrowded.”
“It goes in cycles,” I tell him. “Amber said this was a really heavy kitten year.”
Jon sets his wineglass on the arm of the chair. “There must have been something romantic happening in Catlandia two months ago.”
I laugh and take a sip from my glass. “Creamer in champagne flutes?”
Jon grins. “Sexy music, courtesy of Alexa?”
I shouldn’t be surprised he’s found a way to make Jessica’s pregnancy a reason to worry about every other homeless pet in Central Oregon. “Even if she has the babies today, you’re at least six weeks from having to make any decisions about their future. You’ve got time to figure out the barn cat thing.”
Jon says nothing, and I wonder if he hears my unspoken question. My curiosity about how long he might stick around. He’s given no indication he’s considering it, and I know it shouldn’t matter. The last thing I need is a bigger risk of falling for him.
“Someone should do a fundraiser,” he says. “To help the Humane Society.”
I glance over, pretty sure I know who “someone” is. I can already see the wheels turning, see him assuming responsibility for all the region’s displaced animals.
“What about making a donation?” That has to be simpler, though maybe money’s an issue for him. I have no idea if he got the same inheritance as his siblings. Even if he did, he’s the kind of guy who would have given it all away. That’s Jonathan Bracelyn in a nutshell.
“Already donated.” He slips his phone out of his pocket and holds it up a little sheepishly.
My eyes skim the first couple lines, a generic “thank you for your donation” message time-stamped less than ten minutes ago. “So that’s what you were doing when Amber was showing me honeymoon pictures?”
His shrug causes his thumb to slip just a little, revealing the dollar amount he’d discretely tried to hide. Holy crap.
I glance back at his face, which is perfectly nonchalant. “It’s not enough.”
“Um—”
“I don’t mean the dollar amount.” He shoves the phone back in his pocket, looking embarrassed. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”
“Consider it unseen.” Like that’s possible. Good Lord, that’s enough to feed every cat in Deschutes County for a decade.
Jonathan fiddles with the stem of his wine glass. “I mean money isn’t enough. That’s what my father would do.”
So that’s what this is about. “Non-profits always need money.”
“It’s not enough,” he repeats, more adamant this time. “This is an opportunity to give back in a more meaningful way. To connect with the community and educate people about pet overpopulation. To make a real difference, not just a financial one.”
“I see.” And maybe I do, just a little. There’s a note of longing in his voice, a hollowness in those green eyes. “So, it’s personal.”
“It always is.” He takes a sip of wine and says nothing more.
“Fundraising’s a lot of work,” I offer gently.
“I know,” he says. “I was here when Bree did that cop calendar. The eighties prom, remember?”
I do remember, though I didn’t realize he was there. “How is it we never met until a couple months ago?” I ask.
He looks at me and shrugs. “I wasn’t around much. The second we found out we inherited this property, Bree and James and Mark and Sean knew exactly what they wanted to do.”
“The resort, you mean?”
“The resort,” he confirms. “I thought it was a great idea. Still do. But I couldn’t be a part of it.”
“Why?”
“Too much to do,” he says. “I couldn’t just stay here in paradise building luxury cabins and deciding whether sage or buttercream is a better wall color for a spa. Not when people are suffering all over the world.”
There’s a heaviness in his voice that makes my chest ache. I admire the hell o
ut of him for his conviction. For the fact that he’s such a good man. Not just a good man. Maybe the best man I know.
I shouldn’t ask the question. I know I shouldn’t, but I do.
“Do you ever see yourself settling down?” I ask. “Telling yourself you’ve done enough, and now you can focus on making your own corner of the world better.”
He looks at me for a long, long time. I hear my heartbeat pounding in my ears and wish I could rescind the question. Just yank the words out of the air and stuff them back in my mouth.
“It’s not a requirement,” I blurt, heart pounding against my own nervous tension. “Studies show the marriage rate among our generation is expected to drop to around seventy percent, which is nearly twenty percent lower than previous generations.”
God, there I go again. Let no awkward silence remain unfilled, that’s my motto. Jon’s still looking at me, and I wonder what he was going to say. What I might have just ruined with my fact spouting.
“Is that actually a good thing?” he asks.
And now I’m off and rolling. I can’t help it, can’t find another way to fill the emotional whirlpool swirling in the center of my chest.
“Statistically speaking, married men are healthier than unmarried men, with a death rate that’s forty-six percent lower.” I look down into my wine glass, knowing I should shut up. I should forget the data and the truth I’ve seen in my own parents’ union.
But I don’t stop. I can’t. “On the other hand, married women in America have shorter life expectancies than single women,” I continue. “Married women are also statistically more likely to suffer from depression and less likely to advance in their careers.”
I hate myself for going there almost as much as I hate the silence that follows. The fact that I’ve just brought this conversation to a screeching halt. Would a shrink say I’m doing it on purpose? That I’m sabotaging any chance I might have had at getting somewhere with Jon?
I’m still looking at my wineglass when he speaks. “You know what I love about you?”
I look up, astonished by the admiration in his voice. I’m too startled to answer, so he continues without my response.
“I love how fucking smart you are,” he says. “How curious you are about the world around you, and how that translates to filling your mind with buckets of new knowledge.”
All the breath leaves my body. Never in a million years has any man found this trait to be endearing. Annoying, maybe. Irritating. In a way, it’s how I’ve kept my distance, kept my armor up all these years.
I open my mouth to speak, but I don’t know what to say.
“Thank you,” I finally manage, conscious of how shaky my voice sounds.
“No, thank you.” He grins and sips his wine. “You’re amazing. You’re the best thing about being stuck here recovering.”
I order myself to focus on the word stuck. To remind myself he’s not here long, that he’s destined to go eventually.
But my heart sinks its teeth into those other words.
What I love about you.
You’re amazing.
You’re the best thing.
How long have I wished I could hear those words from someone? Anyone, but especially a man like Jonathan.
I’m still struck dumb by his words, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Just keeps the conversation flowing while I sit wordless with my head spinning.
“Do you ever wonder if your parents are happy?” His voice is achingly soft, and something in it helps me find my words again.
“My father is.” I chew my lip, considering the question. “He’s always happy when he’s serving the greater good.”
“And your mother?”
I hesitate, not wanting to betray her. Not wanting to share the tears she’s kept hidden, even from me. “I think my mother reached a point where she forgot her own happiness matters,” I tell him. “She’s content enough, being part of my father’s missions. Setting aside her passions for the chance to make the world a better place.”
Jon turns his wineglass slowly on the arm of the chair, considering my words. “Maybe it’s the same with my mom and stepdad,” he says. “I always thought they were deliriously happy. They love each other like crazy. You’ve seen them, they can’t keep their hands off each other.”
I laugh, charmed by his weirdly romantic simile. “My parents are nothing like that. Not even close. Your parents make mine look like a pair of cohabitating Stormtroopers.”
Still, I’ve noticed the tension Jon’s mentioned. The fissure between Wendy and Chuck. It’s subtle, nothing at all like the wide, icy gap that settled between my parents years ago. It’s more like Wendy’s speaking French and Chuck’s speaking Italian and neither can thumb quickly enough through their foreign language dictionary.
I keep my mouth shut, not wanting to worry him further, but Jon frowns anyway. “Do you think they’re having problems? My mom and Chuck, I mean.”
I hesitate, not sure what the right answer is. “There’s tension, sure,” I tell him. “Don’t all marriages have it?”
“Not theirs. Not that I’ve noticed, anyway.” He sighs and shakes his head. “I don’t know. Maybe I missed it. Maybe things always seemed so perfect between them because it was so different from what my mother had with my father.”
“How old were you when they split up?”
“Six or seven.” He stares straight ahead at the mountains, but the tips of his fingers brush mine. “It was ugly. He left James’s mom for my mom, which she’s not proud of. It wasn’t long before he started fooling around with Bree’s mom. This was before Bree was conceived, obviously.”
I’m trying to follow along, not sure where Sean and Mark and Izzy fit into the timeline. The fact that every one of them had a different mother tells me plenty about Cort Bracelyn.
“You know you’re nothing like him, right?” I say the words softly, not sure how they’ll be received. “I realize I never knew your father, but the way you’ve described him—the way everyone has described him—you couldn’t be more opposite.”
I hold my breath, worried I’ve said the wrong thing. That I’ve just denigrated his dead father.
As he turns to look at me, a slow, tender smile spreads over his face. “Thank you,” he says. “You have no idea how much that means to me.”
But I do. He’s determined not to replicate his father’s selfishness, just like I’m determined not to repeat my mother’s self-sacrifice. We’re not so different, Jon Bracelyn and me.
I nod, not sure what else to say. I lift my wineglass instead, conscious of the melody of cricket song kicking up from the field behind us. The rosé is silky and warm, laced with hints of strawberry and spice. “You’re cleared for wine now, I take it.”
I probably should have asked earlier, but we were caught up in Jon’s impending cat fatherhood. In the dizziness of that hug, which is still lingering now, hours later.
“It would have been okay weeks ago, since I wasn’t on pain meds long,” he says. “A little bit’s fine in moderation. Oh! I almost forgot.”
He sets down his glass and slips his phone out of his pocket. I can’t tell what he’s toggling to until he finds the audio recording app. He flashes a grin and hits the button. “I made this for you.”
There’s a short burst of static, followed by a female voice. “Hello, this is Dr. Leslie Warren with the Legacy transplant team,” she says. “This message is for Blanka Pavlo. Blanka, this is my official clearance of Mr. Jonathan Bracelyn to participate in the next tier of physical activity. This includes hiking, jogging, moderate gym workouts, and very light paddling.”
There’s a mumble of voices, followed by laughter. “Canoe paddling,” the doctor continues. “Not BDSM. Jon asked me to clarify.”
I laugh, covering my mouth with my hands as the recording continues.
“He’s still not cleared to do any abdominal exercises or heavy lifting, so don’t allow him to assist in carrying any watercraft.” From her tone, I can tell
she knows Jon well enough to recognize this warning is essential. “If you have any questions about this medical clearance, you can reach me on my private number.”
She rattles that off while Jonathan sits grinning in his chair, sipping from his wineglass.
“Very nice,” I tell him. “Very thorough, too. You’re not going to fight me on carrying the boat, are you?”
“You’ve already assured me you’re a master of handling your own canoe.” He grimaces. “That wasn’t supposed to sound dirty.”
“Noted.”
“For the record,” he says, grin spreading slow and easy across his face, “it does kinda turn me on. The thought of you being this badass Amazonian hefting a damn canoe overhead.”
“Also noted.” The smile is contagious, and I can’t help loving the way he’s looking at me. Like he’s picturing me doing that heavy lifting in a bikini or maybe without a stitch of clothing. Not a sexy picture in my mind, but the heat in his eyes suggests he feels otherwise.
“So you’re clear to go canoeing.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And hiking.”
“Affirmative.”
His green eyes hold mine, electricity crackling between us. I know there’s no future between us. Long-term relationships are off the table for me, and Lord knows how long Jon will stick around.
But is it wrong to want him for just a little while?
I lick my lips and watch his eyes flash. “What about sexual activity?”
His smile curves slow and sexy as he slips out his phone again. “I wasn’t going to say anything, but since you asked.”
He picks up his phone, taps the screen a couple times, then meets my eyes again. The heat there sends a delicious shiver down my arms.
“Oh—yes.” It’s the doctor’s voice again, tinged with humor this time. “If you feel up to it, you’re cleared for sexual activity. Nothing too vigorous for now—we don’t want you overexerting yourself before you’re ready. But you’re cleared to resume regular sexual relations.”
I hear him thanking the doctor in the recording, but I can’t hear anything else through the buzzing in my ears. He stares at me, and I stare back with fire rushing through me.