Page 62 of Buttons

With Leo’s help, he’s directed to the reading corner, helping our son arrange velvety hunter-green cushions in a semicircle around the portable cat cages. A couple of potential adopters are curiously watching, likely waiting to see what’s going on. Knowing Leo, he’ll want the cats to still be read to after adoption. If there’s a chance to preach his program, he’ll do it.

Sure enough, I hear Leo explain, “So they get used to voices first, then eventually, eye contact, and then maybe gentle touches.”

“Progressive desensitization,” Julian says, nodding thoughtfully. “Like exposure therapy.”

Leo beams at being understood. “Exactly! It’s science, really.”

They sit on the cushions, along with a few children and adults. Leo picks up a few books from the floor and shows them to Julian. I watch their heads bent together, dark hair against dark hair, showcasing the exact same serious profile. Once they pick a book, Leo begins reading to the cats.

The adoption fair continues. A family with triplets—can you imagine?—selects a pair of bonded ‌tabbies with Sarah’s help. Nora runs the front desk, directing and assisting as needed. Best of all, I heard of at least three individuals who, even though they didn’t adopt any animals, still donated to the shelter. Through it all, I track Julian’s movement through the crowd, an instinct I can’t seem to switch off.

He moves to Meredith’s station next, where she’s created an elaborate display of cat toys organized by what she calls “play personality.” My daughter stands on a small step stool, gesturing grandly at her creation with a small crowd around her.

“The red toys are for athletic cats,” she explains with professional seriousness. “Green is for lazy cats who just batthings. Blue is for smart cats who need puzzles. Same goes for the dogs! But the dogs have larger toys because they have larger mouths and paws.”

Julian watches our daughter with admiration. Feeling confident that the children and my estranged husband are fine, I go to Nora and see how I can help.

When I glance up again from helping a family fill out adoption paperwork, Julian is now standing near the general adoption area, looking paralyzed. He’s neither with Meredith nor Leo, but is watching a young girl, maybe seven or eight years old, stand frozen before a kennel containing a skittish calico. Julian stares, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his shoulders tight.

I walk over to him. “She’s scared, Julian,” I whisper, standing close enough to see the pulse jumping in his neck. “And so is the cat. They’re mirroring each other.”

He looks down at me, and for the first time in a decade, I see a flicker of genuine fear in his eyes. “I don’t know what to do, El,” he admits. “I’ll only scare them both.”

“You won’t,” I say, my voice steady. “But you have to get on their level. You’re looming.”

He hesitates, so I give him a small, encouraging nod. Slowly, Julian crosses the space to the little girl and crouches down. He doesn’t say anything to her yet; he waits for my next cue.

“Talk to her,” I prompt softly after following him.

Julian swallows hard. “She’s, uh…she’s beautiful, isn’t she? The cat,” he says to the girl.

The girl nods, still hesitant.

Julian looks back at me, his brow furrowed in a silent plea for what to do next. I lean in slightly, guiding him. “Tell her about Leo. Tell her it’s okay to be nervous.”

He takes a deep breath.

“I was nervous, too, earlier,” Julian confides, his gaze fixed on the child’s shoes. He’s taking it at the rate he can handle. “I’mnot used to animals, but my son taught me something important today. Would you like to know what it is?”

Another shy nod.

“He said that cats read our body language,” Julian says, his posture softening as he grows more comfortable. “If we’re nervous, they get nervous, too. But if we’re calm, they can feel it.”

“How do I show them I’m calm?” she asks.

Julian’s eyes grow wide, clearly unsure himself. That’s when I swoop in.

“There’s something called the ‘no pressure’ stance.” I start. “It’s where you sit quietly near the cat without staring directly at them. Keep calm and relax your posture, so the cat can clearly see how you’re relaxed and non-threatening. Why don’t you both try?”

The little girl looks to Julian to go first. “Hang on,” I tell them both. “I’ll grab some clean towels to sit on. We clean the floors, but everyone has been dragging dirt on their shoes all day.”

Julian mouths, “Thank you.”

Once I return with the clean towels, Julian goes first. He mimics the posture I described, sitting quietly near the kennel without staring directly at the cat. He’s clenching his jaw, trying to maintain the “calm” I’ve asked for, but I can see the effort it’s taking him to stay still. The child mimics him, her small shoulders relaxing in the wake of his forced patience. We wait. When the calico finally inches forward to sniff the girl’s extended fingers, Julian’s eyes widen. He doesn’t move. He waits until I give him a tiny, approving smile before he speaks.

“You did it,” he says. “You showed her she could trust you.”

This version of Julian reminds me of how he used to be. A memory surfaces of our third date. We had gone to an old, dusty bookstore I loved. It was one of those places with narrow aisles and no logical filing system. I’d been hunting for a specificpoetry collection by Emily Dickinson. It was obvious from the moment we walked in how much the disorder bothered Julian. His nose crinkled, and he physically shielded his eyes with the side of his arms to avoid staring at it all. He hadn’t told me to pick an easier to find book or forced me to select one by the door so we could leave easier. This was back when Julian at least tried.