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“Should I be?” He looks from me to the pen and back again. “Can they get out of here?”
“Well, no.” The pen is a five-by-five octagon with a water-proof bottom, mesh sides, and a top that zippers on and off. “Once they’re in there, they’re pretty happy. And their wings are clipped.” I hold out my hands, palms out, automatically. “Clipping their wings is not as violent as it sounds. It just a fancy way of saying that I trim their wing feathers on one side. It throws them off balance so they can’t fly.”
He’s standing beside the pet pen, his lips curved into that now familiar smirk. And I’m starting to think that it’s less of an arrogant, rude smirk and more just the way he smiles, like he’s not used to doing it and doesn’t know that a real grin is supposed to bare his teeth.
“I’m pretty sure they can’t fly anyway,” he says.
“Don’t tell that to them. Before I learned to clip their wings, they would fly out of the yard at dusk to sleep in my neighbor’s tree.”
He gestures to a huge potted plant that’s a borderline tree. “Should I let them sleep in my Ficus?”
“Not unless you want a ring of bird poop on your floor.”
“I think I’ll pass.”
And that’s the moment I realize that I still have bird poop on my pants.
That’s right, ladies and gentlemen. Here I am, in Martin’s magazine-worthy condo, with a breath-taking view of the city spread out below. And I still have bird poop on my pants.
“I should change!” I blurt. “Speaking of bird poop.”
Except…
I look at the bags scattered across Martin’s otherwise pristine living room. Three chicken carriers. Two tote bags of chicken food, treats, and diapers. My messenger bag, with my laptop and charger. My backup hard drive.
You know what I don’t see?
An overnight bag for me.
Martin seems to realize this at the same moment I do.
“I didn’t bring?—”
“You didn’t pack a bag for yourself.”
I just shake my head, inexplicably feeling like I want to burst into tears.
Martin must see this in my expression because he immediately crosses the room and pulls me into his arms. “Whoa, whoa, whoa.”
He cradles me against his chest with a gentleness I never would have expected from him.
I find myself burrowing into his chest as he strokes his hand across my shoulder. He smells like rain and damp cotton, with faint undertones of cedar and the mint from his gin and tonic.
“Hey, there’s no need to cry.”
“I’m not crying!” I make a liar of myself by sniffling. “I hate crying.” I practically snarl. “There’s no way I’m crying twice in one day!”
“I thought therapists encouraged people to be in touch with their emotions.” His words are gentle and chiding as they brush against my ear.
“That’s for other people!” I declare, fully aware I’m being ridiculous.
His only response is an almost imperceptible snort. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell on you.”
“Who would you tell? We don’t know any of the same people.”
He doesn’t respond to that at all. Probably because he’s realized how silly I’m being and he’s about to lose patience with me.
Except he doesn’t. He just keeps holding me until the urge to cry is completely gone. He’s surprisingly good at comforting me. Shockingly good. I want to stay in his arms forever. To burrow deeper. To huff in the scent of bergamot and fresh rain. To just stay here until all my concerns drift into the ether of comfort he’s surrounding me in.
